The Shooting Party
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Ginger centric Biggles yarn. Ginger and Bertie join forces to solve a country house murder mystery. By HRH.
1. Loggerheads

**Chapter 1**

**Loggerheads**

His hands behind his head, Ginger lay still, enjoying the sun warm on his body, listening to the buzz of insects while he waited for Bertie to arrive.

Suddenly something cold and wet touched his cheek and he opened his eyes in surprise. Dark brown eyes regarded him sombrely and he smiled. "Hello," he murmured, "where have you come from?"

The black Labrador grinned at him, its tongue lolling. Ginger sat up and looked round. There was no one in sight. He regarded the dog with curiosity. It had probably come from the shoot, he thought. He clicked his fingers and quietly ordered it to sit. The dog thumped its back end on the grass and wagged its tail frantically. Ginger laughed softly and stroked its ears.

There was a crashing in the bushes and a thick-set, red-faced man in stiff new tweeds emerged. He glowered at Ginger before addressing him peremptorily.

"What are you doing with my dog?" he demanded in a suspicious tone.

"He came to me," replied Ginger, trying to remain civil but annoyed at being addressed in such a manner. Before he could say any more the man continued, still in the same hectoring tone, "Why aren't you with the rest of the beaters?"

"Well," returned Ginger slowly, containing his irritation with difficulty, "there could be any number of reasons for that, but the chief one is that I am _not_ one of the beaters."

The man looked him up and down contemptuously. Ginger was casually dressed, in jeans and a tee-shirt, as the day was warm and he was off duty, having a day out with the shoot on Bertie's cousin's estate. Although he did not wish to do any shooting himself, he had accepted the invitation to the country house weekend with alacrity as a chance to get out of the city for a while, especially as there was a slack period in the office. With Biggles away at a conference and little to do apart from routine paperwork, he felt at a bit of a loose end. He vaguely recalled meeting Bertie's cousin when they had all been invited to Ascot and had been pleasantly surprised to be included in the invitation. Fortunately, Algy had agreed to hold the fort and thus release him from duty. As Algy had remarked, there was no point in all of them dying of boredom doing the filing.

The red-faced newcomer called his dog loudly by name and was ignored. Ginger hid a grin but not sufficiently well because the man glared at him.

"This is private property," he declared, clearly thinking Ginger had no right to be there.

"Yes, I know," Ginger informed him evenly. "I'm waiting for one of the guns."

Finding Ginger was not intimidated by his bluster, the man turned his attention to the dog and began berating it.

"If I may make a suggestion," ventured Ginger. "Keep your voice down, don't use his name all the time - there are no other dogs here; he knows you mean him - and make him seek you rather than the other way round."

"What does riffraff like you know about champion gun dogs?" asked the man insultingly.

"More than you, evidently," retorted Ginger, finally losing his temper. "Look!" He stood up in a smooth movement, clicked his fingers and, with his voice barely above a whisper, put the dog through its paces. Tail wagging happily, the Labrador obeyed him first time.

"The dog's well trained," Ginger told the animal's owner bluntly, fed up of being treated like a nobody, "he just needs to be given the right commands in the right way."

The man's colour deepened and he looked so furious Ginger would not have been surprised if he had had to defend himself.

The tension between them was broken by a hail as Bertie, in a dilapidated shooting suit and carrying a Purdey in the crook of his arm, emerged from the undergrowth with his cousin and a couple of dogs.

"What-ho, Ginger, old top!" exclaimed Bertie. "Sorry we're late, we were delayed. There are some awful …" His eyes fell on the man in the new tweeds and his voice changed. "Oh, hello, Cliffe," he greeted him, his tone icy. "I didn't realise you were here."

"Lord Lissie!" the man named Cliffe fawned, oblivious of Bertie's coolness. "I was just having a word with this young man."

Ginger saw a spasm of dislike flit across Bertie's face and knew how he felt.

"This is Flying Officer Hebblethwaite," Bertie announced, much to Ginger's surprise because he had not used his RAF rank since he left the Service. "Alfred Cliffe," he added shortly, to complete the introduction. He turned to Ginger. "You know my cousin, Celia, don't you?" he commented.

Ginger nodded and smiled as he acknowledged the tall, pretty young blonde in a well-worn tweed suit, noticing Alfred Cliffe looking at him with a changed expression. Suddenly Ginger understood. He had just been transformed from a despised estate worker into an officer and a gentleman.

"Don't let me keep you," stated Bertie pointedly as Cliffe hovered. "You must have more important things to do than hang around here."

With such an obvious dismissal, there was no excuse for the man to stay, so he called his dog and made off. Ginger was amused to find that he had lowered his voice somewhat and had better success in getting his dog to comply.

"Awful man," commented Bertie as Cliffe disappeared. "He's such a snob! And he's a terrible shot. He's got no idea about controlling his dog."

"I think he's got a bit more now," remarked Ginger with a wry smile and related the events leading up to their appearance.

Celia laughed and sat down, patting the grass beside her to invite them to join her. "It's true he's a terrible snob," she commented, "but unfortunately, with death duties and taxes we have to have paying guns at the shoot these days. It has all become so terribly commercial. It lets in some truly dreadful people, but what can one do? Money talks," she added sadly. "The nicest people don't have a bean these days," she remarked, her gaze straying to Ginger.

Bertie intercepted it and smiled. "Ginger's never had a bean, old girl," he commented. "All he's got is his charm and good looks!"

The pair blushed and both spoke at once as they tried to change the subject.

Bertie laughed at their confusion. "Let's go back to the house, you two," he suggested. "I don't know about you, old girl, but I've had enough shooting for one day. I shall be ready for a spot of tea by the time we get there."

They rose and made their way through the coppice, talking unconcernedly, until they reached the drive. They took a short cut through the rose garden and Celia paused for a moment to sniff one of the blooms. Ginger and Bertie waited for her a little further along the path and she quickly came up to join them.

"It's such a lovely afternoon," she remarked. "We'll have tea on the terrace. It will give us a chance to enjoy it in peace before the guns get back," she added, distaste in her voice. "I'll go and organise it." So saying she quickened her pace and disappeared into the cool, dark interior of the mellow stone sixteenth century house.

Ginger and Bertie sat down on one of the stone benches that, flanked by rosemary bushes, adorned the terrace and waited for the appurtenances of the tea ritual to be brought out for them to enjoy.

"I think tea is my favourite meal of the day," observed Bertie looking out over the lawns towards the ha-ha. "None of the dreadful formality of dinner and in the summer, tea on the lawn or on the terrace is delightful."

Ginger murmured his agreement. He was not particularly looking forward to dinner that evening. He had been warned it was a black tie affair. At least he would not be appearing in borrowed finery this time, he thought, remembering the Lord Lieutenant's visit when he stayed with Cub1.

"Alfred Cliffe is a stinker," commented Bertie suddenly, apropos of nothing. "D'you know, he wiped old Hitchcott's eye today. The man's a positive menace. It wouldn't surprise me to find he'd shot one of the beaters."

"He mistook me for a beater," remarked Ginger. "He would definitely have liked to have shot me. If looks could kill, I'd be in my winding sheet now. He changed his tune a bit when you gave me my RAF rank. I wondered why you did that."

"Odious," affirmed Bertie.

"Who's odious?" queried Celia as she came back out onto the terrace.

"Cliffe," chorused Bertie and Ginger together.

"And so say all of us," laughed Celia.

She sat down beside Ginger, who moved over slightly to give her more room, much to Bertie's private amusement, assuring them that tea would be served shortly. She had hardly made the announcement when Beech, the elderly butler, brought the tea table out and spread it with a lace cloth, weighted at the rim. Chairs, crockery and cutlery soon followed and then the food and drink.

"You do a good spread, old girl," commented Bertie when they were replete.

"You wouldn't think so to hear some of the PGs grumbling," returned Celia. "I don't know what they expect." She paused and cocked her head. "I think I can hear them coming now."

She was correct in her assumption as an untidy gaggle of guns, attired in assorted tweeds, came into view, chattering loudly. Cliffe's voice rose stridently over the rest as he marched at the head of the file, gesticulating to emphasise his words. Behind and beside him, the rest of the guns were in loose order.

Ginger watched them approach, mentally matching the people in front of him with the names of the guests. Two of them were walking close together, a little apart from the rest of the group, Ginger noticed. He watched them, curiously. They were a well matched pair, he thought idly, guessing they must be Peter Fosdyke and Julian Simpson. Both rather less than average height, slim and fair, although Julian's hair was more mousy and Peter was the more slender of the two. In a way, they reminded him physically of Biggles, but he questioned whether they had Biggles' inner strength and resilience. There was a softness he detected in their manner that he knew was not in Biggles' character. The bond between them appeared to be very intimate, reflected Ginger without giving the matter much thought. He supposed their friendship was of long standing, like his and Biggles'.

Beside Cliffe, a pale-faced, almost emaciated man was marching along, his surprisingly firm step and erect posture betraying the bearing of a military man. Although ostensibly it was he whom Cliffe was addressing, Ginger thought the ex-soldier was not paying particular attention and privately sympathised. He speculated that this would be Colonel Hitchcott. A few paces behind the leaders strode a magnificent couple of men, chatting amiably. Both about six foot tall with dark hair, they had contrasting physiques; one was slim and aristocratic with a languid manner, while his companion was sturdy and compact. Ginger had no difficulty in identifying the final pair of guns, Joseph Levy-Strauss and the Honourable Peregrine Worsley. He gained the distinct impression that Joseph Levy-Strauss knew exactly what he wanted in life and was prepared to take it, while his fellow gun expected what he wanted to fall into his lap as a right and was seldom disappointed.

As the party neared the terrace Ginger stood up. "I'm off," he announced. "I've had one dose of Alfred Cliffe today and I expect I shall have to put up with him at dinner, too, so I'm going to my room to write some letters. Make my apologies, please, if anyone inquires," he said to Bertie. "Tell them I've got a touch of malaria or something," he added bleakly as he made his way indoors.

"Does he get malaria?" asked Celia solicitously as she watched his retreating back.

"He had a bad bout when he was in India one time2," Bertie informed her. "But I don't think it affects him generally," he commented. "He has had a bad bout of Cliffitis, though," he smiled. "Apparently the man thought Ginger was a beater and was pretty rude to him. Certainly, when we rolled up I thought there was going to be a fracas."

"So did I," agreed Celia. "I should not have been at all surprised if Cliffe had hit Ginger, despite the difference in their height and weight. The man is a bully. He is either insufferably rude or disgustingly obsequious," she observed. "There seems to be no happy medium. Oh dear," she sighed. "Here he comes."

Celia assumed a smile and greeted the guns, apologising that they had not waited tea.

"My fault," claimed Bertie. "I was starving. The old tum-tum thought my throat had been cut, don't y'know!"

There was a general murmur of forgiveness as they drew up chairs. Bertie stayed for a while, making polite conversation before he vacated his seat with a quiet apology. "I must be off," he remarked. "I have some urgent letters to write, too," he winked at Celia. "Dinner is at eight, old girl?" he asked, looking at her for confirmation.

She nodded. "I shan't be late," he told her. "Dashed bad form to be late for dinner."

With that he followed Ginger into the house, relieved to escape from the presence of his fellow guns, whom he had found rather wearing, being for the most part corporate men with whom he had nothing in common, and in Cliffe's case, totally unbearable.

1 See Ginger Learns A Lesson

2 See Biggles Goes Home


	2. An unexpected turn of events

**Chapter 2**

**An Unexpected Turn Of Events**

In order to get to his room Bertie had to pass Ginger's door and on impulse, he tapped on the oak.

There was a slight pause before Ginger's voice came from within asking, "Who is it?".

"It's me, old boy," called Bertie. "Who did you think it was?"

"Are you alone?" asked Ginger, ignoring Bertie's question.

"Yes, of course I am!" expostulated Bertie. "What do you think I am, the Seventh Cavalry?"

"Just a minute," Ginger told him and Bertie heard the key turn in the lock.

"Come in," invited Ginger without opening the door.

Rather puzzled, Bertie pushed the door open and went in. He had disturbed Ginger in the process of taking a bath and the young man was naked apart from a towel around his hips. Droplets of water glistened on his shoulders and chest where, in his haste to answer the door, he had not finished drying himself completely.

"Ah, I understand now, old boy," breathed Bertie, enlightenment dawning. "You wouldn't want to entertain Celia dressed like that," he smiled.

"Certainly not!" replied Ginger with warmth. "Your cousin seems fascinated by me," he observed curiously. "I can't think why."

Bertie coughed delicately. "Ahem, I rather think it has as much to do with your background as your boyish good looks," he told Ginger. "Celia has always had rather a thing for …" he hesitated before continuing, "how shall I put it? The lower orders?"

Ginger flushed. Bertie was intrigued to notice the colour only reached as far as the base of his neck. His shoulders and chest remained as white as before.

"I wish she didn't," he muttered uncomfortably.

"So do her parents, old boy," averred Bertie sadly, thinking Ginger had never really got over Jeanette's death1. He went across and sat on the bed as Ginger disappeared into the dressing room to complete his preparations for dinner. They continued conversing through the door which Ginger had left open.

"Hadn't you better be getting dressed?" asked Ginger when he finally emerged, clad in his evening wear. "It can't be long before they'll be sounding the gong."

"No rush, old boy," Bertie told him calmly. "My man, or rather, the man Celia has lent me, will have laid out my clothes and drawn my bath. It will be but a moment to bathe and dress. I'll be ready well before they summon us." He stood up and went to the door.

"I'll pop along as soon as I've got the old boiled shirt on," he remarked as he opened it, "and escort you down to the drawing room. Just in case Celia waylays you, if you see what I mean," he added from the doorway with a wink and a wicked grin.

"Go and get dressed!" growled Ginger, struggling with his bow tie.

Bertie chuckled and retreated, leaving Ginger to make yet another attempt to get a reasonable butterfly to adorn his shirt collar.

When Bertie returned, elegant in his dinner jacket and immaculate bow tie, Ginger had finally mastered the art of neatly tying the scrap of silk at his neck and was sitting in an armchair near the open window, reading a book while he was waiting.

Ginger looked up as Bertie stuck his head round the door and marked his place with an old envelope, closing the book with a snap. He put it on the table at his elbow, next to the letters he had been writing earlier, then stood up and joined his companion ready to descend to the drawing room. Just as he did so, there came a sharp report, like a car backfiring. Bertie and Ginger exchanged glances.

"What do you make of that, old boy?" queried Bertie.

Ginger looked puzzled. "It sounded like a pistol shot," he opined, "but it couldn't be. No one would be shooting small arms at this time of night, and it wouldn't be poachers; not their weapon. It must have been a backfire, somewhere out on the road."

Bertie nodded, unconvinced. "Sounded closer, though," he mused. "Must be deceptive in the still air." He shrugged his shoulders dismissively and opened the door preparatory to going downstairs.

As they went out into the corridor together, the dinner gong reverberated through the house.

The other guests were already assembled in the drawing room when Bertie and Ginger reached it. The murmur of conversation met them as they opened the door and went in.

Celia came across to greet them and offer sherry. Her willowy body was encased in a figure-hugging black evening dress which set off her fair colouring to perfection. A rivière of diamonds sparkled at her neck and matching studs glinted in her ears.

Ginger declined the sherry and looked around the room. All the guests were there except for Alfred Cliffe.

Bertie followed his gaze and drew the same conclusion. "Trust the bounder to be late," he murmured, helping himself to a glass from the tray.

The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece struck eight and the butler came in to announce that dinner was served. Celia hesitated, unwilling to let the meal spoil, but inclined to give the errant guest a few moments' grace.

"I'll go and see what's keeping him," Bertie offered. "You take the rest of the guests in to dinner and we'll join you as soon as possible."

Celia seized on the offer gratefully and slipped her arm through Ginger's, murmuring, "you won't mind taking me in, will you?"

Ginger felt himself blushing at her attention, but could not be ungallant. "Of course not. I'd be delighted," he told her as Bertie disappeared in the direction of the stairs.

She flashed Ginger a grateful smile and they followed Lady Conway and Colonel Hitchcott as they led the guests into the dining room where the table groaned under a scintillating display of silver, glassware and gold-edged porcelain that boasted the family escutcheon. Flowers made a bright splash of colour in the epergne that graced the centre of the brilliant expanse of white linen damask. Ginger thought Celia had spared no effort to make things seem like the old days before the death duties and taxes that made her life so difficult.

As if she had read his mind, she squeezed his arm gently and murmured into his ear, "one has to make an effort, you know. The PGs expect it. It's called keeping up appearances."

Ginger smiled ruefully, wondering what was keeping Bertie. Celia's perfume was intoxicating and he found her closeness unsettling. Surely Cliffe must be ready to come down to dinner soon, he thought, to release him from the awakening of memories he had thought long buried.

As if on cue, Bertie appeared in the doorway to the dining room. He looked rather pale, Ginger thought.

"Excuse me, old girl," Bertie murmured to Celia in a low voice. "I need to talk to Ginger for a moment. I'm afraid Cliffe is unwell and won't be coming down to dinner. You'd better carry on without him. Don't bother to have anything sent up, he won't be able to eat it."

So saying, he caught Ginger by the arm and led him into the drawing room.

"What is it?" asked Ginger as soon as they were out of earshot. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I have, in a manner of speaking," Bertie told him. "You remember we thought we heard a pistol shot ..." When Ginger nodded, he continued, "well it was. Someone has drilled Cliffe straight through the forehead while he was dressing for dinner. He's as dead as mutton, lying on his bedroom floor."

Ginger's eyes opened wide as he looked at Bertie shocked. "Good heavens!" he ejaculated. "No wonder he won't be coming down to dinner! Are you sure he didn't shoot himself?"

"Absolutely, old boy. There was no weapon. Admittedly, I didn't search the room, but I think if he'd killed himself he couldn't have hidden the gun."

"What are you going to tell Celia and your aunt?" asked Ginger, looking at the door to the dining room.

Bertie hesitated. "I don't know, old boy. It's a bit of a poser. I don't want to spoil the evening, so I think we'd better wait until after dinner, when we can have a word with Celia in private without attracting too much attention. She can break it to my aunt later. I've locked the door to Cliffe's room and I've got the key here," he showed Ginger the bedroom door key and then put it back in his pocket, "so no one can get in and disturb anything. I didn't touch anything while I was in there, apart from the key, and the door wasn't locked when I went in, anyway. We'll have to call the local police, I suppose, as a matter of courtesy. They'll want to interview everybody."

"They're not going to like it if we delay," commented Ginger. "And I can't say I'm keen on the idea of making polite conversation all through dinner as if nothing has happened, knowing that there's a dead man upstairs and a murderer on the loose. We could end up like "Ten Little Indians."

"You've been reading too many whodunits, my lad," Bertie admonished him crossly and Ginger grinned. "There is this about it," added Bertie, "the list of suspects is going to be a long one. After the affair of the dog this morning, I should think your name will be at the top."

"That's alright," returned Ginger smoothly. "You and I both have an alibi for the time of the shooting. I wonder who else does."

"No doubt we shall find out in due course," remarked Bertie, heading for the dining room. "Come on, old lad, let's bite the bullet."

"You could have chosen a better phrase!" Ginger told him dryly as they opened the door and belatedly took their seats at the dinner table.

1 See Rite of Passage


	3. A dinner with a difference

**Chapter 3**

**A Dinner With A Difference**

For Ginger the atmosphere at dinner had a strange, nightmarish quality. That he and Bertie and the unknown murderer should be the only ones to know of Cliffe's death cast an air of unreality over the scene. He felt he was an actor in a play and everyone knew their lines except him. Everything appeared normal on the surface, but he imagined he sensed odd undercurrents at work. Ginger covertly surveyed his fellow guests and wondered which of them had pulled the trigger. He looked at Bertie who was sitting opposite him and thought he was probably doing the same thing. Suddenly he dragged his mind back to the dinner table as he realised his neighbour was addressing him.

"Sorry, Lady Conway," he apologised to Bertie's aunt, who was sitting on his right. "I was miles away. What did you say?"

His neighbour repeated her question and Ginger answered absent-mindedly, his thoughts distracted. The minutes dragged until at last Celia and her mother rose and gathered the ladies around them to retire to the drawing room. When finally the men were alone and the port was being passed amid wreaths of aromatic cigar smoke spiralling up to the ceiling, Ginger managed to catch Bertie's eye. Bertie leaned towards him. "We shan't linger long, old boy," he reassured his fidgeting companion, "but we can't dash off straight away; it would look odd. We shall have to sit it out a bit longer for form's sake."

Ginger, impatient to be off but resigned to observing the proprieties, sipped his glass of port slowly, surreptitiously glancing at his watch from time to time, waiting for the minutes to pass and failing utterly to take any interest in the gossip that accompanied the wine. When the decanter was making its second circuit he stared hard at Bertie, willing him to make a move.

"I can't take much more of this," he muttered quietly when Bertie glanced his way. "My nerves are at full stretch. Surely we can join the ladies now."

Simpson, one of the guns on his left, leaning forward to take the decanter, overheard his last statement and made a jocular remark about Ginger's eagerness for female company that brought a rush of blood to the young man's cheeks. Much to his discomfiture the theme was taken up by some of the others who had noticed Celia's preference for his company over theirs.

Bertie took pity on the blushing youngster and gave his proposal a hearty backing.

"Absolutely right, old boy," he averred with a smile. "We mustn't deprive the ladies of our company any longer." He stood up and headed for the door.

There was a scraping of chairs as the others followed his lead and made their way to the drawing room where the wives of several of the guns were making polite conversation with Celia and her mother.

Celia turned at their entrance and broke off from what she had been saying to welcome the men back. Bertie moved across and took her gently by the elbow, drawing her discreetly away from the chattering circle.

"Ginger and I need to have a quiet word with you, old girl," he told her earnestly. "Is there somewhere we can go where we shan't be disturbed?"

Celia looked at him askance, puzzled by the unusual seriousness of his demeanour. "There's the library," she replied with a questioning lift of her eyebrows.

"Good," murmured Bertie. "We don't want anyone being curious," he added nonchalantly, "so wait a moment and then suggest showing Ginger one of the pictures in the library. I'll make an excuse, then come and join you shortly afterwards."

As Celia moved away, Ginger hissed furiously, "if she does that, they'll all think …"

"Of course they will, old boy," broke in Bertie with a smile. "That's the whole idea. The last thing they'll suspect is that you've got some bad news about one of the guests to break to her. Don't worry," he added with a reassuring wink, "You won't be alone with her for long."

Ginger was about to say that Bertie had missed the point when Celia came across and pointedly invited him to view the copy of a Reynolds in the library, leaving him no option but to accept with alacrity. He was acutely aware of several pairs of eyes watching their departure together with interested speculation.

Celia led the way along the corridor and entered the book-lined room. Ginger followed, feeling rather foolish. Celia faced him across a large partners desk and demanded to know what on earth was going on. "Why has Bertie asked me to bring you here?" she wanted to know.

He took a deep breath and invited her to sit down.

"I'm afraid I have some rather unfortunate news," he began when she was seated at the desk and he had sunk into an armchair opposite her. "It's about Cliffe."

"Cliffe?" she expostulated. "What has Cliffe got to do with having a tête-à-tête with you in the library?" she asked with some asperity. "People will be beginning to think there is something between us – apart from this desk," she added drily with a slight twitch of the lips.

Ginger sighed, thinking Bertie's bright ideas often made relatively simple things more complicated. "Bertie didn't want everybody to know, although they'll have to eventually, and this was his way of putting everyone off the scent," he explained. "Believe you me, it wasn't my idea," he added ungallantly, but with considerable feeling. Celia hid a smile, amused by his scarcely veiled reluctance to be left alone with her, which she found added piquancy to the chase.

"Cliffe has been shot dead in his bedroom," Ginger continued baldly, unwilling to prolong a situation he found slightly embarrassing more than was strictly necessary. "That's why he was absent from dinner."

Celia gave a little squeal and clutched at her breast. She turned pale and for a moment Ginger thought anxiously that she was going to faint. He need not have worried; Bertie's family was made of sterner stuff, even if Celia belonged to a collateral branch. After a moment, during which she stared at him open-mouthed, Celia drew in a deep breath and made a visible effort to pull herself together. "Do you mean it wasn't an accident?" she asked breathlessly when she had recovered her composure. "He was terribly bad at handling his shotgun safely. It would be just like him to do something stupid like take it to his room instead of leaving it in the gun room."

Ginger nodded reluctantly. "As far as Bertie's aware, he was murdered," he answered slowly, holding her gaze. "He found the body when he went up to see if Cliffe was ready to come down to dinner. Cliffe had been shot with a small calibre pistol, not a shotgun and there was no sign of a weapon. Bertie locked the door and pocketed the key so no one could get in and disturb anything. I can't tell you any more because that's all he told me; I haven't seen it for myself."

She continued to look at him aghast. "We shall have to call the police in," she concluded, with a sigh. When he nodded his agreement, she continued, "I don't know what they'll say about the delay." She paused. "When did he tell you? Was that what he wanted to have a word with you about? Did you know about it before dinner?" she wanted to know. Ginger admitted he did.

She shook her head in amazement. "You gave absolutely no sign of it," she remarked, then she exclaimed, horrified, "how could you? It's so macabre!"

Privately Ginger agreed with her. "Bertie said it was best to wait until after dinner because it would ruin your guests' final evening," he explained. "After all, they leave tomorrow."

"Well, they won't be able to now!" Celia commented tartly. "I shall have to ring the local station. They'll send that clodhopper Pearson up," she added, referring to the local policeman who had a reputation for bucolic incompetence. With a sigh of resignation she reached for the telephone and asked to be put through. As briefly as possible she informed them about the death and asked that they send someone up to the Manor as soon as possible. From where he sat, Ginger could hear the squawking on the other end of the line as the constable responded heatedly to that request. Although he could not hear the words, the gist of the message was clear and he could well imagine what was being said about the delay in reporting the fatality.

Bertie arrived just as Celia was concluding her conversation with the local constabulary and she looked at him reproachfully. Unabashed he sat in one of the leather armchairs and commented light-heartedly, "Ginger gave you the sad tidings then, old girl!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked plaintively. She shuddered. "When I think of the dead body lying upstairs all the time we were dining; it's revolting."

"Well, he's still up there, old girl. Now you know, is it any less or more revolting? What good would it have done? I saw no need to spoil your dinner," remarked Bertie with inescapable logic. "More to the point, will PC Plod be able to find out whodunit or shall we have to call in Scotland Yard?"

"I thought _you_ were attached to Scotland Yard," commented Celia acidly.

Bertie made a face to indicate his distaste at her bluntness. "Only in a manner of speaking," he replied dismissively. "We deal with air incidents, don't you know? Unless someone shot him through the window while hovering in a helicopter," he added sarcastically, " – and I don't think they did, or we would have heard it! – there doesn't seem to be an air angle to this one, if you get my meaning."

Ginger, ignored while the cousins were bickering, got up and went across to the French window. He twitched aside the heavy curtain and looked out over the terrace. The park and pleasure grounds were in darkness. Above, the sky was ink black, strewn with twinkling points of light where the stars showed through the wisps of cloud. The moon had not yet risen. He was on the wrong side of the house to see the drive, he thought, but mentally picturing the layout of the building, he concluded that Cliffe's bedroom must be two floors above them, on that side of the wing, overlooking the croquet lawn that he knew lay between the terrace and the ha-ha, and which was reached by a flight of broad stone steps.

He turned back towards the room and asked, "What did he do?"

"Do?" echoed Bertie, looking at him puzzled. "What do you mean, old boy?"

"Cliffe," replied Ginger. "What did he do for a living? Perhaps the motive for his death lies in whatever it was he did to make a bob or two; a business rival or a deal that went wrong. Perhaps he got caught up with the wrong sort of people," he speculated.

Bertie looked at Celia with raised eyebrows and she shrugged her shoulders elegantly. "Import-export mainly, I think," she replied vaguely. "Property as well."

"Hmm," mused Bertie, absent-mindedly polishing his eye-glass. "That covers a multitude of sins. I wonder exactly _what_ he was importing and exporting. It could make a lot of difference."

"We'll have to make sure the police don't neglect that line of enquiry," suggested Ginger.

"Perhaps," interposed Celia wryly, "it was just someone he had insulted."

"In that case," averred Ginger bitterly, the memory of the way Cliffe had treated him when they had met still fresh, "it will take the police weeks to interview everybody! I'm surprised Bertie didn't report lots of wounds on his body. I should think they would have been queuing up to have a go at him, like Julius Caesar!"

At that juncture, there was a discreet tap on the door and Beech entered, looking grave.

"Constable Pearson is here, m'lady," he announced. "He says there's been a murder!"

Celia sighed with exasperation at the melodramatic way her butler had ended his announcement and mentally cursed the village constable for his self-importance. "So much for keeping it quiet!" she murmured, then in a louder tone, she continued, "I know all about it, Beech. Show him in here."


	4. The Constable takes a hand

**Chapter 4**

**The Constable Takes A Hand**

The butler left and shortly afterwards ushered in a short, portly and pompous policeman, whose uniform buttons strained over his generous paunch. Celia remained seated at the desk to receive him, her back ramrod stiff and the light from the green-shaded lamp coaxing rainbow-shot glints from the diamonds at her neck and ears, while Bertie lounged in his armchair and elegantly crossed one evening-dress clad leg over the other, screwing his monocle back in his eye to scrutinise the newcomer. Ginger, silent and unnoticed, standing immobile in the relatively deep shadow by the window, thought the pair of them were consciously or unconsciously playing up their role as aristocrats. He did not think the constable would be amused, a conclusion borne out by the man's opening words.

"This is a very serious matter, Lady Conway," he began ponderously and self-importantly. "You should have reported it straight away."

"My mother is Lady Conway," Celia corrected him frostily. "I am Lady Celia Courtney, as you should know, but it will suffice to call me m'lady," she informed him brusquely.

The policeman looked irritated rather than abashed and Ginger wondered whether it was wise to antagonise him.

Constable Pearson sat down heavily without being invited and Celia pursed her lips. "Do make yourself comfortable, Constable," she told him pointedly and Ginger noticed the man had the grace to blush slightly at his lack of manners.

"I'll come straight to the point, m'lady," he stated bluntly. "You rang up the station at …" he broke off to consult his notebook, then continued portentously, " 21 hours 44 minutes to tell me that there has been a shooting that you have known about since before dinner, which from my experience of your sort of people," he said ungraciously, "is about 20.30 hours."

"Eight o'clock, actually, officer," put in Bertie languidly. "We were a few minutes late because I went up to see what was keeping Cliffe – the murdered man. I knocked on his door and receiving no reply, tried the handle. It was unlocked and I found him lying on the floor, shot through the forehead with a small calibre pistol, but with no sign of the weapon in the room."

"And you are…?" queried the policeman, about to make an entry in his notebook.

"Bertie Lissie, Lady Celia's cousin. Actually," continued Bertie, "I'm Lord Lissie but I'm also Sergeant Lissie of the Special Air Police, attached to Scotland Yard." He hid an amused smile at the constable's expression on hearing this unexpected statement. The pencil remained poised over the page as Pearson appeared to be immobilised by surprise.

Bertie seized the initiative and continued, "I didn't touch anything, naturally. As I said, I couldn't see the murder weapon, although I didn't spend much time investigating. Then I took the key out of the door, locked it so no one could get in and disturb anything, and came downstairs."

"And you told her ladyship what had happened?" surmised the constable.

"Oh no!" replied Bertie. "Not straight away. I told my colleague, Air Constable Hebblethwaite, who is also a guest here, first. I thought he ought to know."

"And what did he do? I don't suppose he told her ladyship, either, did he?" asked the policeman with a suspicion of sarcasm in his voice, as he made several different attempts to capture the surname in his notebook.

"You're quite right," Ginger spoke for the first time.

The constable peered into the gloom from whence Ginger's voice had come. Whether it was the fact that they were of equal police rank, or the slight northern intonation in the young man's voice that betrayed his working class origins, the policeman seemed to warm to him, for his tone of voice when he asked his next question was cordial. "So what did you do then, constable?"

Ginger stepped forward into the light and saw from the expression of surprise on Pearson's face that he had not lived up to the policeman's preconceived ideas of him. Whether it was his apparent lack of years or the fact he was attired, like Bertie, in evening dress, Ginger was not sure.

"I had taken Lady Celia into dinner," he explained, joining the circle at the desk. "Lord Lissie came and fetched me from the dining room, but without alarming the other guests. We decided that, as it was too late to do anything for Cliffe and the scene of the crime had been made secure, the most pleasant thing for everyone else was to go on with dinner as normal and observe the rest of the guests, who were, after all, potential suspects."

"Did you form an opinion about what time the victim was shot?" Pearson wanted to know.

Ginger and Bertie exchanged glances. "We thought we heard a shot just as we were leaving my room to come down to dinner," offered Ginger. "That would have been about five to eight."

"Both leaving the young man's room," mouthed the constable silently as he wrote the information down. He looked up and subjected Ginger to a curious scrutiny.

"But we didn't positively identify it as such," concluded Bertie to draw attention back to him. "We thought it might have been a backfire. The night was still, and sound would have travelled a long way. The window was open, too," he added.

"And do you share a room?" Pearson wanted to know curiously, clearly intrigued by what went on upstairs at country house parties.

"Of course not," replied Bertie naturally, thinking that the constable had some queer ideas. "I came along to collect Ginger after we had both finished dressing."

Constable Pearson looked at the young man again and scribbled out his attempts at Ginger's surname, noting in his book instead, "Ginger".

They were interrupted by a tap on the door followed by the appearance of Beech. "The police doctor has arrived, m'lady," he announced.

On being requested to show the man in, Beech presented a tall, thin, bespectacled man, in his mid-forties, with hair that is commonly known as "pepper and salt". He was carrying the badge of his office, a brown leather Gladstone bag.

"Dr Grange, m'lady," the butler announced and withdrew.

Celia made the introductions and suggested that Bertie took the doctor up to Cliffe's bedroom so that he could view the body.

Bertie assented, then in an aside to Ginger, remarked, "you'd better stay here, old boy. It won't be pleasant. I'm not exactly looking forward to it myself."

Ginger nodded, reflecting that he was fortunate in that his comrades were at pains to protect him from the more distressing nature of their work.

Pearson accompanied the doctor and Bertie, leaving Ginger alone with Celia.

"I think we had better rejoin the others in the drawing room," suggested Ginger as tactfully as he could. "We've been an awful long time, considering we were supposed to be inspecting a painting."

Celia looked at him puzzled for a moment and then recollected the purported reason for their being in the library. With an effort she drew herself up and smiled at him. "I feel a bit shaken, you know, Ginger," she confessed. "I think I'll just have a brandy before we go back. Do help yourself," she added as she went to the table behind one of the sofas, selected a decanter from the tray of drinks and poured a small measure of the amber liquid into a balloon glass.

Ginger declined, adding that he seldom touched spirits; brandy was for medicinal purposes and would be wasted on him.

"That's what this is," Celia assured him, "purely medicinal." She took a couple of mouthfuls and sighed, "you're right, what a waste! It's Napoleon cognac and completely unappreciated. I suppose I offend your Northern frugality with my prodigal ways," she murmured half ironically, putting the unfinished glass down on the desk.

Despite himself, Ginger smiled and Celia had the grace to blush. For all she was attracted by his different upbringing and enjoyed teasing him, she had to admit she liked him for himself and had instantly regretted her rather snide remark. Ginger sensed the subtle change in her attitude and decided it was time to get his own back.

"I feel better after that bracer," she announced briskly.

"Good!" said Ginger. Then with a grin he added, "let's give the gossips something to talk about." He offered her his arm and, when she took it with a startled glance, led her back to the drawing room, ushering her in proprietarily.

The guns and their wives looked up at their return and several of the men gave Ginger a conspiratorial wink, to which he responded with an air of innocence that was so patently false it fuelled their speculation rather than ending it. The women looked at Celia curiously and to her intense annoyance she found herself blushing. She did not expect this turn of events, nor to feel uncomfortable that the tables had been turned on her and her reaction was a revelation. When she turned to Ginger to remonstrate with him, he smiled into her eyes.

"I think that painting, "The Biter Bit", was wonderful, don't you?" he asked impishly.

Celia dropped her gaze and nodded ruefully. "No more teasing," she breathed. "I promise. I didn't realise what you must feel. It was just a bit of fun."

"One person's fun is another's embarrassment, wouldn't you say?" he asked quietly. For a moment, his accent broadened as he quoted, "'if you prick us, do we not bleed?' Just because my father was a miner and I was born in a slum," he continued in his normal voice, "doesn't mean my feelings can be toyed with for your amusement."

"I'm sorry," said Celia genuinely reaching out to put her hand on his arm. "Really I am." She was unable to meet his eyes.

Ginger put his hand under her chin and raised her face. "Yes, I think you are," he agreed. "It's been a salutary lesson for you." As he spoke, some sixth sense made him glance across to find Colonel Hitchcott watching them contemplatively. Ginger took his hand away and felt the blood rush to his cheeks, annoyed with himself at the display of embarrassment.

All attention was abruptly switched to the door as Constable Pearson, accompanied by the doctor and Bertie, came into the drawing room and his dramatic announcement forced all thoughts of any possible involvement between their young hostess and her guest from everyone's mind.

Constable Pearson cleared his throat and declared importantly, "I shall have to ask you all to remain where you are. There has been murder done!"

The room broke into uproar as the occupants responded to this revelation.

"Celia! Is this true?" asked Lady Conway, aghast.

"What is this, Lady Celia?" asked Colonel Hitchcott bewildered, "some kind of a joke? Are you doing an Agatha Christie weekend and you've got mixed up?"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel," Celia told him regretfully, nodding to her mother. "Someone has killed Alfred Cliffe, apparently."

"Are you sure he didn't just kill himself?" queried the ex-soldier, frowning. "He was getting treatment for depression, you know."

"He was definitely murdered, I'm afraid," confirmed Bertie.

"Hmph," snorted the Colonel. "Shouldn't speak ill of the dead," he continued, "but whoever it is has done everybody a good turn in that case!"

Constable Pearson made a note in his notebook. "You didn't like him then, Colonel?" he asked heavily.

"The man was a menace!" exclaimed the Colonel. "He wiped my eye on the drive today."

Constable Pearson looked puzzled so Bertie explained. "What the Colonel means is that Cliffe shot across and took one of his birds." When the policeman still looked blank, Bertie added, "it's a shooting _faux pas_ as well as a potentially dangerous manoeuvre."

"His dog caused havoc with the drive," added a deep voice which Bertie recognised as belonging to Joseph Levy-Strauss. "He had no idea of controlling it," the financier continued, a remark which caused much nodding and murmurs of agreement among the assembled guests.

"_And_ he was rude to the beaters," mentioned another gun, a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man called Worsley who was standing near the fireplace, a coffee cup in his hand. "Absolutely no call for it."

"He was rude to everybody," interposed Peter Fosdyke from his seat near the window. "The man just didn't have any social graces at all."

This pronouncement also provoked a chorus of assent as Constable Pearson struggled to keep up with the information that was being thrown at him. Ginger, still standing close to Celia, almost felt sorry for him.

Naomi Levy-Strauss, a pretty dark-haired girl, much younger than her husband, clutched at the necklace at her throat, twisting the rope of pearls convulsively. Under the torsion, the string snapped and the pearls spilled over the carpet, rolling across the polished parquet. All eyes switched to the cascade of beads.

Flustered, the young woman bent down and began scrabbling on her hands and knees to gather up the remnants of her broken necklace.

Lady Maria Worsley, who had been sitting next to her, leaned forward and touched her gently on the shoulder. "Don't, my dear," she said not unkindly, "ring for a servant."

Naomi reddened. "Of course," she stammered, straightening up and looking round for the bell.

Lady Maria's husband put his coffee cup on the mantelpiece and moved across to pull the cord as Constable Pearson cleared his throat for another announcement.

"I shall have to have all your names and particulars," he told them, brandishing his notebook. "Then I shall want to see you one at a time in the library."

He moved aside as Beech arrived in response to the bell. "What do you want?" he inquired officiously.

"You rang, m'lady?" asked Beech, ignoring the policeman.

"_I_ did," the Honourable Peregrine Worsley told him from the right of the fireplace before Celia could reply. "Mrs Levy-Strauss has broken her necklace. Send someone to pick up the pearls and have them re-strung."

"Certainly, sir," returned Beech urbanely. "I'll send a maid at once." With that, he withdrew to set the process in motion.

Constable Pearson eyed Peregrine speculatively. "I think we'll start with you, sir," he said grimly.

"Just as you wish," responded Peregrine smoothly. He paused in making his way toward the door to murmur reassuringly to his wife, an attractive Spanish-looking beauty who, Ginger thought inconsequentially, would have been just Algy's type, "I don't suppose this will take long, darling."

As the short, dumpy policeman and the tall, lean aristocrat left for the library, a hubbub of speculation broke out among those left in the drawing room. A maid entered unnoticed by the guests and cleared up the remnants of the broken necklace.


	5. Making a cast

**Chapter 5**

**Making a cast**

Bertie moved across to Ginger. "I think we'll need to do some sleuthing of our own, old boy," he murmured as the other guests gathered into groups to discuss the unexpected developments. "Constable Pearson doesn't strike me as the cream of his profession, if you see what I mean."

Nodding his agreement, Ginger turned to Celia. "Who was the last to arrive before us?" he asked. "Everyone was here when we came into the drawing room."

Celia wrinkled her brow in concentration. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I wasn't really paying attention. I had no idea it would be important."

Ginger drew in a deep breath. "Alright, let's approach it from a different angle. Was anybody else here when you came into the drawing room?"

Celia shook her head. "No," she told him, definitely. "I came in at about 7.30 and made sure everything was ready. Beech was just attending to the fire."

"I thought you said there was nobody else here," commented Ginger, puzzled.

"I meant the guests," explained Celia. "I don't count the servants."

Ginger sighed. "For the purposes of this investigation," he told her, "please let's count them as well. We need to know what everybody, including the servants, was doing."

"As you wish," replied Celia, "but most of the time, one doesn't notice them."

"Why was Beech attending to the fire, old girl?" queried Bertie. "I should have thought one of the maids would have done that."

Celia answered vaguely, "the parlour maid was taken ill, I believe. Really, girls these days aren't a patch on their elders," she added in a dismissive fashion.

"Who was the first guest to arrive?" specified Ginger.

Celia stared at the fire for a moment or two as she thought back. "Colonel Hitchcott," she said eventually. "He remarked on what a fine evening it was. Then my mother came in and the two of them began discussing bridge." She paused before continuing, searching her memory. "After that, Peregrine and Maria arrived together at the same time as Julian Simpson and Peter Fosdyke," she stated.

"That means that the Levy-Strauss couple must have been the last then," concluded Bertie. "Did they arrive together?"

"No, now you come to mention it," observed Celia. "Mrs Levy-Strauss didn't come in until just a few minutes before you arrived."

"How did she look?" asked Ginger. "Was she upset in any way?"

Celia looked at him wide-eyed. "You don't think that slip of a girl killed Cliffe, do you?" she asked him in amazement.

"The female is deadlier than the male, old girl," remarked Bertie facetiously. "You'd be surprised. It doesn't take a lot of physical force to pull a trigger, as you know yourself."

Celia nodded. She had been brought up to shoot, but the thought of turning a gun on another human being was repugnant to her. It went against everything she had been taught about the safety rules for shotguns.

Ginger repeated his question. "She always looks flustered," observed Celia, glancing at the person in question, who was now twisting a handkerchief nervously between her fingers as she talked to Lady Maria. "I don't think she was any more so than usual."

"We'll have to look into everybody's backgrounds," remarked Ginger. "There may be a link with Cliffe somewhere that would provide a motive."

"Other than sheer dislike, you mean," commented Celia. "The man was most unpleasant." When Bertie cocked a disapproving eye at her she continued with a sigh, "yes, I know - _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_, but he was a dreadful man. I can't think of one redeeming feature."

"Was he married?" Ginger wanted to know.

"A widower, I believe," answered Celia. "He did drop a few hints that he was on the lookout for another wife." She shuddered briefly at the memory. "Perhaps he murdered his wife and one of the suspects is a relation getting revenge," she speculated. "Or maybe his wife committed suicide because she couldn't face the prospect of living with that awful man any longer."

"She could have just left him," observed Ginger practically. "She didn't have to top herself."

"I think we need to stick to the facts," Bertie reminded them gently, "before we get too carried away. We'll have him a serial killer, a blackmailer and a swindler if we carry on like this, you know."

Celia's expression indicated her distaste. "I wouldn't put anything past him," she remarked caustically.

"This isn't helping, old girl," murmured Bertie, exasperated. "We need some hard evidence."

"Well, where do you suggest we start?" asked Ginger. "I think we're going to have to help Constable Pearson out."

Bertie polished his eyeglass mechanically as an aid to thought. "Let's have a word with Mrs Levy-Strauss," he suggested. "Do you mind if we use the morning room?" he requested to which Celia nodded.

"By all means. May I come with you?"

"I don't see why not, old girl," Bertie told her. "You can act as chaperone."

They went across to the sofa where Naomi Levy-Strauss was sitting prattling nervously to Lady Maria. She jumped when Bertie addressed her, but made no demur to accompanying them to the morning room to help them with their enquiries. Her husband looked for a moment as though he was about to protest, but changed his mind and murmured reassuringly, "Don't worry, darling, it's just a few questions. It won't take long."

Hesitantly, the petite brunette stood up. Bertie indicated the door and she followed him meekly. Ginger fell into step behind. The scent of Naomi's lily of the valley perfume surrounded her like a cloud and made him wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Once they had entered the morning room, Bertie invited her to sit down, but she insisted on pacing up and down the Turkey carpet. He sat on one of the chairs and looked at her sympathetically, thinking she reminded him of one of his hunters who had constantly box-walked, restlessly wandering round and round the stable. Celia and Ginger found seats at opposite ends of the table.

"We'd like you to tell us about this evening, before dinner," probed Ginger gently. "What did you do before you came down to the drawing room?"

Naomi Levy-Strauss looked at him sharply. "I had a bath and got dressed for dinner, of course," she said. "What else would I do?"

"What time was it when you came downstairs?" interposed Bertie.

Naomi Levy-Strauss looked from one to the other like a hunted animal. She had stopped pacing up and down. Ginger was reminded of the rabbits in the field near his childhood home; nervous, restless, whiskers and ears twitching for the first sign of danger from human or stoat.

"I didn't do anything," she said defensively, her voice small, like a child's. "I didn't kill that awful man."

"No one is accusing you of anything," Bertie reassured her. "We just want to ask you some questions about what you saw and heard. We need to establish a time frame for the events of the evening."

"I didn't see anything," she protested, almost sulkily. "Why are you picking on me?"

Bertie sighed, exasperated. Before he could make any comment, Ginger broke in.

"It's not a matter of picking on anyone," he told her gently. "We have to start somewhere and apart from us, you were the last person to arrive in the drawing room before dinner. We thought you might have some valuable information."

She glanced at him sharply again and he thought her pallor had intensified. For a moment it looked as though she was about to demand who had given that information, but after a glance at Celia she admitted, "I went back to my room. I'd forgotten something."

Ginger tried to remember where the Levy-Strauss' room was in relation to the dead man's. Celia came to his aid.

"So you would be nowhere near Cliffe's room in the East Wing," she remarked, "if you went straight to your room. Which staircase did you use?"

"I don't follow," murmured Naomi unconvincingly. "What do you mean, which staircase?"

"The main staircase or the one from the servants' quarters," clarified Celia.

Naomi hesitated and Ginger wondered why she did not answer immediately. It seemed a simple enough question.

"I don't remember," declared Naomi eventually.

Ginger frowned, Bertie snorted and Celia murmured, "Oh come now!"

"I don't!" exclaimed Naomi in the face of these expressions of disbelief. "I've been up and down to my room all day - it's a long way and I never seem to have everything I need. Sometimes I used one set of stairs and sometimes I used the other. How can you expect me to remember?" She seemed on the verge of hysteria.

"What did you go to fetch?" asked Bertie. "Or don't you remember that, either?" he added softly.

"My bag," came the prompt reply. "I had some pills in it. I need them for my nerves. I couldn't go through dinner without them."

Three pairs of eyes converged on the petite brunette. Naomi Levy-Strauss was twisting a handkerchief convulsively in her fingers, but of her evening bag there was no sign.

No one commented and Naomi herself appeared not to notice the lack.

"Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?" prompted Ginger. "While you were upstairs or on the way down, I mean."

"What sort of thing?"

"Noises, a shot, a scream, sounds of a struggle, running footsteps. The windows were open. Sounds travel a long way on a still night."

"No, nothing," declared Naomi, almost defiantly.

"Did you see anyone?" persisted Ginger. "That includes any of the servants," he added.

Naomi shook her head vehemently, but refused to meet his eyes. "No," she stated firmly. "Nobody."

Bertie and Ginger exchanged glances.

"I think," said Bertie finally, "perhaps you might take Mrs Levy-Strauss back to the drawing room, Celia. We may wish to talk to you again," he added as Naomi relaxed, relief evident in the slackening of tension. Thoughtfully he watched Celia escort the girl out of the morning room. As the door closed, his eyes met Ginger's. "She's lying," he stated positively. "She is definitely hiding something."

Ginger nodded. "That was the impression I got, too," he concurred. "The question is, why? Who is she protecting? What doesn't she want us to know?"

"Perhaps we'd better have a word with her husband before they get a chance to hold a jolly old confab and get their story straight," mused Bertie. "Just slip along and collect him, will you?"

Ginger nodded briefly and departed on his errand. As he strode swiftly along the corridor to the drawing room he reflected on Naomi's strange reluctance to admit to which staircase she had used. What did it matter? He tried to visualise the layout of the house and made a mental note to investigate later.

When he arrived in the drawing room, he was relieved to notice that Celia was still close beside Naomi, who was clinging to her husband's hand. Ginger caught the man's eye and requested an interview.

Levy-Strauss stood up. He was dark and swarthy; a tall, well built man who towered over Ginger. "Lady Celia tells me you're a policeman," he rumbled. When Ginger nodded, he continued, "you have been interrogating my wife. She is very upset."

"I would hardly call it an interrogation," protested Ginger. "We asked a few questions in a civilised manner, that's all." He explained that there had never been any intention to cause any distress, but as they were attached to Scotland Yard and a crime had been committed on the premises, they were duty bound to assist the local police in the pursuance of their duties.

"This dreadful man," stated Levy-Strauss as he accompanied Ginger along the corridor. "He committed suicide, I am convinced of it. There is no need for any investigation." He sounded very sure of himself.

Remembering the Colonel's mention of Cliffe's treatment for depression as a possible reason for suicide, almost against his will Ginger found himself drawn to ask the man why he was so certain, although he knew the lack of weapon made it impossible.

"When you investigate his dealings, as you will - you must - you will find he is …" he corrected himself, "he was a dishonest man. He could no longer live with himself."

Ginger forbore to ask why the man should have chosen that very time and place to suddenly become so overwhelmed by a sense of guilt that he could no longer face living and showed Levy-Strauss into the morning room.


	6. A fencing match

**Chapter 6**

**A Fencing Match**

When the merchant banker had settled himself on a chair with his back to the window, Bertie asked him if he had known the deceased before they met at the house party.

Levy-Strauss hesitated as if about to deny it, but then recalled his remarks to Ginger and admitted that he had known of the dead man.

"You implied just now that Cliffe was involved in shady dealings," mentioned Ginger. "Would you care to elaborate?"

The financier regarded him with deep-set eyes that were so dark as to be almost black. Instead of replying, he brought out a cigar case, selected one of its contents and began the elaborate ritual of preparation. Ginger fidgeted while Levy-Strauss removed and pierced the end of the Corona before striking a match and applying it to the cigar. When it was emitting a cloud of aromatic blue smoke that made Ginger back away stifling a cough, the man finally spoke.

"Yes, I had come across Alfred Cliffe in the course of several financial deals in which I was involved," admitted Levy-Strauss. "At first I thought he was a _bona fide_ business man. It was only later I realised that his company was less than sound and some of his methods were, to say the least, questionable. When I found that out, of course, I had no more to do with him. We withdrew our financial backing. We could not associate ourselves with anything unethical."

"How did he react to that?" enquired Bertie, screwing his monocle back into his eye to quiz Levy-Strauss more closely.

"He tried to implicate me in a dubious transaction with a South American company who were suspected of dealing in drugs." Joseph Levy-Strauss spread his hands expressively, causing the fragrant cigar smoke to waft Ginger's way. "I informed the authorities, but nothing could be proved either way. Mud sticks," he added rather bitterly. "I was somewhat dismayed to find Cliffe among the house guests," he admitted, looking at Bertie keenly, before continuing, "frankly, Lord Lissie, I am not at all surprised that he was killed. I should imagine it could well be revenge by one of his South American 'business associates'. He was not an honourable man. I believe the _Medallin_ are very unforgiving."

"I say! Are you suggesting it was a contract killing?" asked Bertie, raising his eyebrows.

Levy-Strauss shrugged. "It is not beyond the bounds of possibility," he averred, rising and tapping the ash from his cigar into the fireplace.

Ginger shifted uncomfortably on his seat. "That would mean someone in the household had South American connections," he mused.

Levy-Strauss turned to look at him and smiled. For a second Ginger thought he looked sly and wolfish. "I am sure you know that Lady Maria's mother was Colombian," he stated. "She was a coffee plantation heiress."

Ginger sighed inwardly. They had only interrogated two suspects, he thought, and already they had three possibilities. Who knew what other links might turn up as they investigated? He thought longingly of calling Biggles and asking for his help, but regretfully rejected the idea. He knew that his boss was in America attending a conference on aviation crime hosted by an American colleague and while Biggles himself might relish the thought of leaving it all to come home for some active duty, Ginger knew that the Air Commodore would not be pleased.

Bertie caught Ginger's eye and frowned sympathetically as if he could read the young man's thoughts.

Ginger thought back to the conversation in the corridor heading for the morning room. "Earlier you said you were sure Cliffe had committed suicide," he remarked. "Now you are trying to tell us he was assassinated. Which theory are we expected to swallow?" he demanded sarcastically.

The financier tapped his cigar again as if to remove more ash, but made no comment other than an expressive shrug of the shoulders.

Bertie turned back to Levy-Strauss and regarded him quizzically. "Forgive me for putting this so bluntly," he remarked deprecatingly, "but where were you when the blighter was shot?"

Levy-Strauss looked at him broodingly. For a moment Bertie thought he was not going to answer, but then, unexpectedly, the financier laughed; a deep, booming laugh that shook his whole body. "Come, come, Lord Lissie!" he chided. "What do you think I will say? That I was in his room murdering him? Or that I was keeping watch while someone else did?" He looked at Bertie keenly. "Since you were asking my wife if she had been near Cliffe's room, I presume that _is_ where he was killed." When Bertie nodded, Levy-Strauss came back and sat down on his seat, hitching his trousers up before he did so and then smoothing the material over his knees with a peculiarly fussy gesture. "Firstly you must tell me exactly when he was killed, and how. If I am to help you, I must be in possession of all the facts."

'And have an excuse for knowing details the murderer would know,' thought Ginger. He began to have some appreciation of the financier's astuteness. "We don't know a lot," Ginger compromised. "The police doctor hasn't told us the time of death yet, but we are investigating the period immediately before everyone came down to dinner." He was watching Levy-Strauss carefully and thought he detected a slight relaxation at his announcement.

"I came downstairs with my wife, but she had forgotten her evening bag and decided to go back for it," said the financier smoothly. "She is very forgetful," he added, smiling indulgently. "She has been running back and to all day."

Still puzzled by Naomi Levy-Strauss' reluctance to say which staircase she had used, Ginger put the question to her husband. The result surprised him.

"Pah! What does it matter?" spat Levy-Strauss angrily. "One staircase is much like another!" As if he realised from Bertie and Ginger's startled glances that his unguarded vehemence had been excessive, he shrugged eloquently. "I don't know," he confessed. "Naomi turned back and I went on into the drawing room. I didn't see which staircase she took. It is a mere detail and not worthy of notice," he concluded smoothly.

As if to divert attention away from his strange reaction, Levy-Strauss continued, "we didn't meet anyone on the way down and I didn't see anyone in the corridor. When I got to the drawing room all the guests were there except you and my wife."

Ginger thought that often the truth was found in the details and decided that he absolutely must find out which staircase had been used. It annoyed him that such a trivial matter should be so elusive. Could it really be of importance? he mused. Or was he wasting his time over trivialities?

"Thank you, Mr Levy-Strauss," said Bertie dismissively. "I'm sure Constable Pearson will want to ask you some questions, too."

The financier smiled at the thought and again Ginger was reminded of a predator. He was sure that the local constable would be no match for the sharp wits of the businessman. Levy-Strauss stood up and made for the door. As he reached it, he turned and asked ironically, "aren't you supposed to tell me I mustn't leave the premises?"

"I rather thought you knew that already," returned Bertie softly. "There is no point in stating the obvious, is there, old chap? Besides, the more you say the more you might let slip, as I'm sure you're aware."

Levy-Strauss half chuckled. "There is more to you than meets the eye, Lord Lissie," he commented approvingly. "I have enjoyed our little chat."

With that he went out and closed the door behind him.

"He's a cool customer," remarked Ginger when the financier had left. "He played his cards pretty close to his chest."

"Hmm," mused Bertie. "He twitched a bit when you asked him which staircase his wife used, though. I wonder why. She was the same. It's dashed odd."

"It's so odd I've _got_ to find out," averred Ginger. "I can't make up my mind if it's a red herring or a vital clue and I shan't rest until I've got to the bottom of it."

"He's right that it's trivial," commented Bertie, absent-mindedly polishing his eyeglass to aid his thought processes, "but that being so, why make such a song and dance about it?"

"I'm going to go up and down _all_ the staircases and see if I can eliminate this from the investigation," declared Ginger. "It's driving me crazy!" With that, he got up and headed for the door.

"Mind you don't end up like the Flying Dutchman, old boy!" was Bertie's parting shot. "Doomed to wander the corridors for all eternity!"

"If I don't turn up for breakfast," said Ginger grimly, as he passed through the door, "you'd better come looking for me!"


	7. Ginger investigates

**Chapter 7**

**Ginger Investigates**

When Ginger left Bertie in the morning room and headed for the main staircase he was turning over the possibilities in his mind. The grand staircase he knew, because he used it to come down from his room, led from the main hall to an airy landing from which the principal guest rooms were accessible. Cliffe's room, however, had been in the far wing and was not directly off the landing. To get there necessitated a journey through several corridors before that section of the building was reached. The servants stairs were at the back of the house. He had never used them but he knew they came out through a door that was concealed in the panelling.

As he passed the door of the drawing room he heard a muted murmur of conversation. Clearly many of the guests had not retired after the excitement of the evening. He did not stop, but carried on into the hall. The lighting was low and the shadows were deep. He paused for a moment, listening, but the huge house was still. Marble statues caught by the feeble rays of the lamp peopled the shadows with ghostly figures. Ginger drew in a deep breath and told himself to get a grip on his nerves.

He headed for the staircase and went up the shallow steps two at a time. When he reached the landing he paused and looked back. Beech crossed the hall below him carrying a tray with a decanter and tumblers. The butler's footsteps echoed on the marble floor and died away.

Ginger turned back to the landing and hesitated a moment to get the geography of the house clear in his mind. He made his way to the small corridor on the extreme right of the landing that led to the wing where Cliffe's room was located. The bulbs in the lanterns that illuminated the service corridor were dim and now he was away from the main part of the house occupied by the household and guests, the carpet beneath his feet was thin; too thin to mask his tread. He saw no one and met no one as he strode along, his feet making hollow footsteps on the wooden floorboards. It was with no small feeling of relief that he emerged into the wider corridor that linked the "bachelor quarters" where Cliffe had been housed. He turned left and made for the room where Cliffe had spent his last moments. As he rounded the corner a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry, sir. No one is allowed in here," a uniformed policeman, obviously posted by Constable Pearson, informed him. Ginger produced his Scotland Yard identity card and the young constable apologised, impressed.

"We don't often see people from the Yard," he observed, eyeing Ginger curiously, and clearly thinking that London policemen were a different breed if Ginger was anything to go by.

"I don't want to tread on anyone's toes," Ginger reassured him, "but as my colleague and I were here we felt duty bound to help."

"I'm sure we're delighted to have you," the constable responded dutifully if not necessarily honestly. "You Yard blokes must see this sort of thing all the time," he added wistfully. "Nothing ever happens down here in sleepy hollow."

"Well, hardly," admitted Ginger candidly. "We mainly deal with air incidents. This is a bit out of our line."

"I thought you was a rubber-necker," confided the young constable whose name, he informed Ginger, was Clark. "You'd be surprised what lengths people will go to in order to see the scene of the crime."

Ginger nodded sympathetically. He sensed that the lot of being posted to guard the door of the crime scene in this out of the way spot was not a congenial one and Constable Clark would welcome the opportunity to chat given a modicum of encouragement.

"Have there been any visitors since you took up your post here?" he wanted to know.

"You're the fifth," he informed Ginger, much to the airman's surprise.

"Good heavens!" Ginger blurted out. "Who were they?"

"The maid came up to strip the bed. I told her nothing was to be touched. Then the butler came up to try to get me to change my mind, but I wasn't having any of that. Orders is orders," he stated firmly if ungrammatically.

"Quite right," encouraged Ginger. "Who else?"

"Then a young man came up. Said his name was Fosdyke. Reeking of perfume, he was." The constable sniffed. "Bit limp-wristed if you ask me," he opined.

Ginger hadn't but prompted, "and what did he want?"

"Said he had lent the deceased a book and he wanted it back. Huh!" scoffed Constable Clark. "A likely story!"

Ginger shook his head sadly. "He'd have to do better than that to get round you," he commented.

The policeman nodded vigorously. "That's what I told him. I says 'I've heard better excuses from my nephew when he's trying to get out of doing his homework'."

Ginger smiled at the comparison. "Who was the fourth," he enquired.

The answer surprised him. "Her Ladyship - the young one, I mean," the constable clarified. "She didn't try to get in, just came to see I had everything I needed. Very nice of her, I thought," he added. "Considerate, like."

"Yes, very," agreed Ginger, wondering why on earth Celia would want to go to Cliffe's room. He thought it was totally out of character for her to go herself on an errand she would surely normally send a servant to carry out.

"Do you want to see the body?" asked Constable Clark. "It would be alright for you, seeing as you're from the Yard," he added.

Ginger declined. Cliffe had been unpleasant when he was alive. Dead he was even more unattractive. "My colleague has already viewed it," he explained. "He was the one who found the victim. I'm just investigating the routes to and from the room."

"This is like a rabbit warren," opined the constable. "There's stairs everywhere. You could hide an army in these corridors. I shouldn't like to have to tramp up and down here all day."

Ginger suddenly thought of Naomi Levy-Strauss and her claim that she had spent the day tramping up and down to her room. It reminded him of the purpose of his quest.

"Where are the stairs to the servants' quarters?" he wanted to know. "I presume you came up that way."

Clark nodded. "From the servants' hall," he confirmed. "They're just down the corridor. There's a door in the panelling. You have to look for the outline to see it. It's very cleverly done," he observed admiringly. "They went to a lot of trouble to hide the servants away when this was built," he commented. "But then, they treated the servants like dirt. They was supposed to pretend to be invisible if they met any of the upstairs lot so they wouldn't offend their eye," he continued bitterly. "My granddad was a footman here," he admitted rather surprisingly, Ginger thought. "He had some tales to tell."

"I'll bet!" agreed Ginger. "I had better get on with my investigation, though," he concluded, "and look at the stairs to the servants' quarters." Leaving the constable to his lonely watch, he walked down the corridor in the direction indicated by the policeman. About half way along, was the outline of a door in the panelling. Clark was correct; it was hard to see and could easily be missed unless one was looking for it. Ginger found the recessed handle and opened the door. The space behind it was in darkness. He groped for the light switch and pressed it down. Nothing happened. Stifling an imprecation Ginger stepped forward cautiously, feeling for the wall and testing each step for the start of the stairs.

His questing hand touched something soft but before he could react he received a push which propelled him forward. His foot encountered space and he pitched headfirst down the stairs. His last conscious thought as he hit the floor at the bottom was that the scent that had filled his nostrils was somehow familiar.


	8. The plot thickens

**Chapter 8**

**The Plot Thickens**

When Ginger left him to try to solve the puzzle of the staircase, Bertie waited a moment or two before going back to the drawing room. He wanted to think through his next move, but found that the more he thought about it, the more confused he felt. Biggles would have sorted something out in no time, he told himself. Muttering that he never was any good at brain work, he got up and made his way along the corridor to the drawing room.

Most of the guests were still there, he noticed when he entered. Celia and her mother had retired but the Worsleys were talking to Colonel Hitchcott while Peter Fosdyke and Julian Simpson were sitting a little apart deep in earnest conversation. Joseph Levy-Strauss and his wife were not present, he noted.

Bertie went over to join the Colonel. As he passed the animated couple in the corner he saw Julian pat Peter sympathetically on the hand. Whatever they were talking about, mused Bertie, Peter clearly needed consoling.

The Colonel stood up as Bertie approached. "When are we going to be allowed to leave, Lord Lissie?" he asked. "We can't keep presuming on Lady Celia and her mother's hospitality for ever, y'know."

"I'm afraid it's not up to me, Colonel," replied Bertie apologetically. "You'll have to ask Constable Pearson. He's in charge of the investigation."

"Hrmph," grunted the Colonel irritably. "We'll still be here at Christmas if that pompous buffoon has his way. D'ye know," he asked Bertie, "the idiot asked me if I shot him!" He shook his head in disbelief. "As if I'd tell the fella if I had! Not," he added conspiratorially, "that I didn't feel like it this afternoon." The Colonel looked round the drawing room. "I'd say practically everybody here had reason to hate Cliffe and wouldn't shed any tears over his passing."

Bertie thought it was a sad epitaph, but pressed the Colonel for evidence to back up his statement.

"Well," said the Colonel as he settled back on the sofa and warmed to his task, "take the Worsleys here," he indicated Peregrine and Lady Maria. "I don't think they'll mind my telling you that Cliffe nearly ruined Lady Maria's family in some fancy deal in Colombia. Pulled out and left them to pick up the tab."

Lady Maria blushed but acknowledged the truth of the story. "I might have wanted him dead," she admitted, "but I did not kill him, that I can assure you."

The Colonel inclined his head towards Peter and Julian who had risen and were making their way to the door. "Young Fosdyke is due to inherit a packet from his aunt, Lady Lavinia Bedlington, but I doubt she'd let him get the money if she knew just how close his 'friendship' with Simpson is. Cliffe was making some pretty pointed remarks this morning. I wouldn't have put it past him to try to turn his knowledge, or at least suspicion, to some financial advantage."

"Blackmail, you mean?" queried Bertie as the couple in question paused at the door and made their goodnights.

The Colonel nodded when they had left. "Fosdyke doesn't have two ha'pennies to rub together on his own account," he continued. "He only has his job in the City courtesy of his aunt's influence. One whiff of scandal and he'd be ruined. There may be a push to relax attitudes to that sort of thing going on in some quarters at the moment, but he works for a very old-fashioned and straight-laced firm. His friend hasn't got any money either, so it's no use his looking in that direction for help."

"And you, Colonel?" prompted Bertie. "What is your motive for murder?"

The Colonel laughed shortly. "I could have cheerfully killed him this afternoon when he took my bird! But I didn't, y'know." He paused before remarking, "even your young red-headed friend has a motive of sorts by all accounts. I hear he had a brush with Cliffe over his dog."

"You are remarkably well informed, Colonel," Bertie complimented the older man, wondering where he got his information. As far as he knew, Ginger had not mentioned it to anyone other than himself and Celia.

"Ha! I make it my business to know," replied the Colonel. "I was in Intelligence during the war and old habits die hard."

Bertie regarded him thoughtfully. "Who told you about that incident?" he asked gently.

The Colonel hesitated and for a moment Bertie thought he was going to claim he never revealed his sources, but the older man admitted, "Cliffe was not very complimentary about your young friend; thought he was impertinent and was shouting his mouth off about the poor state of today's youth over tea after you'd gone off to write those letters. Cliffe was no judge of character; I thought he was quite a decent lad. Where is he, by the way?" he asked, looking at Bertie curiously. "Gone to bed?" he added with a wink.

Bertie ignored the questioning and the innuendo. "What about the others?" he asked, keen to discover just how much the Colonel did know.

"Levy-Strauss got his fingers burned over some deal in the City, I believe," commented the Colonel. "Cliffe put out a rumour he was involved in something nasty involving drugs. Levy-Strauss was innocent I'm sure, but mud, once thrown, is hard to get rid of. My friends in the Square Mile tell me that his position is not as secure as it was."

"Well, that only leaves Lady Celia, her mother and myself," smiled Bertie. "Don't tell me _we_ all have a reason for bumping Cliffe off!"

"I think you're about the only one in the clear," surmised the Colonel, to Bertie's surprise. "Lady Celia would move heaven and earth to keep this house. Cliffe bought up the mortgage as part of some property deal. Rumour has it he was about to foreclose. Lady Conway would not be averse to helping her daughter - 'aiding and abetting', I think you call it. Besides which," the Colonel added, "there are the servants. I don't know anything specific about them yet, but Cliffe was such a bounder he could well have provoked them, too. He had no idea how to treat servants."

Bertie felt his heart sink. He recalled Ginger's earlier remark about Julius Caesar and thought how right he was. He glanced at his watch and wondered vaguely why Ginger had not put in an appearance. Perhaps he had gone straight up to his room and gone to bed, thought Bertie, but he was surprised that his colleague had not bothered to share his findings first. He decided that as it was time to turn in, he would call in at Ginger's room on the way and swap notes.

Accordingly, Bertie said his goodnights to the remaining guests and made his way up the main staircase. Outside Ginger's door he stopped and listened a moment. There was no sound from within. Gently, Bertie tapped on the oak. There was no response. On an impulse he tried the door handle. To his surprise it turned easily and the door started to swing open. Feeling sure Ginger would have locked it if he had been in, Bertie entered the room and switched on the light. The curtains were drawn. The bed had been turned down and Ginger's pyjamas laid out on the pillow, but of the young man there was no sign. Bertie began to experience a pang of alarm. He checked the dressing room. It was empty.

Coming back into the bedroom proper, Bertie thought back over what Ginger had said he was going to do. He looked at his watch again. Making up his mind he left the room and made his way down the stairs, heading for the servants' quarters, intending to reach Cliffe's room from there. Perhaps he would bump into Ginger on the way, reasoned Bertie, trying to stifle his apprehension that the young man was unaccounted for in a house with a murderer on the loose.

At the foot of the stairs he paused. The house was silent, brooding. Bertie shivered involuntarily and told himself firmly to get a grip on his nerves. He skirted the main staircase and pushed open the green baize door in the wall to the right that marked off the servants' quarters from the main part of the house. The corridor was dimly lit and his feet sounded loud on the thin floor covering.

There was no one about. The servants had obviously retired for the night. Bertie stopped outside the kitchen and listened. Hearing nothing he pushed open the door and glanced in. Everything was neat and tidy, ready for preparing the following day's breakfast. Bertie closed the door behind him and turned back into the corridor, looking for the stairs that led up to the guest bedrooms. He found the door a little farther along and pushed it open. It gave and then stuck as though there was something wedged up against it.

Bertie leaned his weight against the door and felt it move a little. To his surprise, a groan came from the other side of the pine panels. Bertie pushed again and this time he managed to get the door open enough to see what was blocking it.

His jaw dropped when he saw it was Ginger's semi-conscious body. The young man had a purple bruise on his temple and had clearly just started to come round.

"I say, old boy!" exclaimed Bertie in a concerned voice when he had managed to get through the narrow gap and kneel beside Ginger, tenderly examining his head in the light that spilt through the half open door. "What happened? Did you fall down the stairs?"

Ginger looked at him confused. He winced as Bertie's gentle fingers probed the area around the bruise.

"I don't remember," he murmured, trying to sit up. "It's all a bit hazy."

Bertie helped him into a sitting position and supported him with an arm around his shoulders. Ginger put his head in his hands and tried to think. His head was pounding and his thoughts were chaotic and disorganised.

"I think we'd better get you back to your room, old boy," suggested Bertie after a minute had passed with no improvement in Ginger's condition. "You need to lie down."

"I'll be okay," insisted Ginger, but he staggered when he tried to get to his feet. Bertie tightened his grip to hold him steady.

"Of course you will, old boy," he murmured reassuringly. "It will just take a minute or two. No sense in rushing these things. It's like taking a bad tumble out hunting."

Ginger leaned against him, grateful for the support. He looked white and shaken.

"If you feel up to it, we'll be getting along, old boy," suggested Bertie. "The sooner you're in bed the better." He looked for the light switch and pressed it, intending to take Ginger up the servants' staircase. Nothing happened.

"Dash it! The bulb must have gone," he remarked. "What a bally nuisance."

"Wait a minute," said Ginger, frowning with the effort of recall. "The light. I'm not sure … I think - it was out."

"So you fell down the stairs in the dark," concluded Bertie. "Bad luck, old boy."

Ginger struggled to remember. "I must have ... No - at least, I don't think so. There's something..." He ran his hand through his hair distractedly, wincing as he touched the bruise. "It's just at the back of my memory but I can't quite recall it. Something important, I think."

"Perhaps you'll remember it tomorrow," Bertie consoled him. "When you've had a rest."

"Perhaps," acknowledged Ginger. He swallowed hard. "I feel sick," he admitted. "I'll have to sit down for a minute before I tackle the stairs."

Bertie looked at him in dismay. It was rare for Ginger to admit to weakness. Usually he was annoyed with himself for falling out. Bertie concluded Ginger must have been really shaken by the fall.

Ginger sat on the bottom step and tried to pull himself together while Bertie sat beside him as anxious as a mother hen with her chick.

After what seemed like an age to Bertie's concerned senses, Ginger got to his feet again. "I don't feel up to managing this flight in the dark," he confessed. "It's too steep. We'll have to take the main staircase."

"Righto, old boy," acknowledged Bertie, holding his arm. "Take your time."

As they made their way along the corridor Bertie had traversed in his earlier search, Ginger's condition improved noticeably. By the time they had reached the hall, he felt he was able to walk unaided but at the top of the main staircase he had to pause again, clinging dizzily to the handrail.

Bertie hovered beside him at a loss how best to help. The spasm passed and Ginger reached his room without further problems.

Bertie stood by anxiously as Ginger undressed and got into bed. "Are you sure you'll be alright, old boy?" he asked in a concerned voice as he twitched the bedclothes over the young man. "I could easily call a doctor."

Ginger managed a weak smile. "Don't fuss, Bertie," he said reassuringly. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

Unconvinced, Bertie turned to go, but then turned back. "Would you like ...?" he began to ask, but his voice died away when he saw Ginger was already asleep.

Quietly Bertie went out and closed the door behind him, switching the light off as he left.


	9. Bertie follows up

**Chapter 9**

**Bertie Follows Up**

The following morning, before breakfast, saw Bertie knocking at the door of Ginger's room, ostensibly to bring him up to date on what he had learned so far and to see if Ginger had remembered anything from before his fall the previous evening. He was relieved to find Ginger recovered and back to normal although a little pale. His memory, however, was still hazy. Bertie interrupted him doing his best to conceal the bruise on his temple by brushing his fringe over it.

"Don't say anything about what happened to me when we go to breakfast," warned Ginger when Bertie had told him about his conversation with the Colonel. "Let's just keep our eyes and ears open for any unusual reactions."

Bertie nodded. "Let them give themselves away, you mean," he remarked. "I must say," he continued, "this is turning out to have more twists than Hampton Court maze. Just about everybody here except you and me has a reason for doing the blighter in." Bertie smiled, "and the Colonel is convinced that you had a motive over the dog," he added.

"It's hardly sufficient cause to kill somebody," observed Ginger, "but perhaps it's just as well with Constable Pearson in charge that you and I both have an alibi for when the shot was fired." He grinned. "That would upset the Air Commodore, wouldn't it, if we were both arrested for murder!"

"Don't even think it, old boy," protested Bertie. "Not even in jest. Whatever would Biggles say?"

"He'd probably say he always knew I couldn't be trusted not to get into trouble out of his sight," grinned Ginger as they left his room to go down to breakfast.

They ate a leisurely meal, joined by the other guests at irregular intervals, but nothing incriminating was said and no one remarked on Ginger's pallor.

After breakfast they interviewed the Colonel, Julian and Peter, and Lady Maria and her husband, but all had alibis for the time of the shooting. Bertie cautiously put a few questions to his aunt and was relieved to find that she, too, could be eliminated from their enquiries.

Ginger, disappointed by their lack of progress, decided he wanted some fresh air and persuaded Bertie to accompany him for a stroll in the pleasure grounds. The day was fine enough not to need a coat so they went straight out without returning to their rooms.

On the way back, they paused for a moment to look at the house before crossing the croquet lawn to regain the terrace. Everything was so peaceful they both found it hard to believe that murder had been done just a short time before. Ginger pointed out that Cliffe's room was in the wing facing them.

"It's funny we heard the shot so clearly," he remarked. "My room is around the corner on the other side of the house. You would have thought it would have been muffled by the building."

"Now you come to mention it, old boy," said Bertie, "I noticed his window was closed, too. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but that would have helped deaden the sound, too, wouldn't it?"

"Are you sure, Bertie?" queried Ginger.

"Absolutely," confirmed Bertie. "If you look, you'll see it still is."

They both looked at the window of Cliffe's room. The casement was firmly shut.

"That's very odd," mused Ginger. He looked at Bertie curiously. "Do you think that maybe the shot we heard wasn't the shot that killed Cliffe?" he ventured hesitantly.

"How so, old boy?" questioned Bertie with a puzzled frown.

"Well, if the window's closed and we're on the other side of the building, would we have heard the shot so clearly? I don't think so. But, if someone wanted us to think Cliffe had been killed just before dinner - when in fact he was already dead - and fired a shot where we could hear it ... does that make sense?"

Bertie nodded slowly. "I see what you mean, old boy. A red herring."

"Maybe we've been looking at alibis for the wrong time."

"How could we prove it, though?" asked Bertie. "I mean we'd need to find some evidence."

"Let's have a look round our side of the house," suggested Ginger. "After all, if someone fired a shot, unless it was a blank round, the bullet must have gone somewhere."

Together they crossed the lawn and made their way round to the south front of the house. Apparently wandering along idly, they scanned the flower beds and terrace for any evidence of a shot being fired, but without any success.

Ginger smiled ruefully. "So much for my bright idea," he admitted as they reached the end of the terrace below his window. "We seem to have drawn a blank."

"I don't know so much, old boy," said Bertie, staring up at the wall. "Look at that wisteria. It seems to have lost a branch."

Ginger followed the direction of his gaze. The gnarled trunk of the ancient wisteria showed a white scar about fifteen feet above ground. Still attached to the wall, the severed branch was beginning to wither. There was no way of examining it easily. The nearest window was a good ten feet away.

As if reading his mind Bertie said, "there's only one way to check," and stepped into the flower bed. Before Ginger could protest, he had grasped the trunk and begun to climb.

"For goodness sake, be careful!" cried Ginger in a panic. The wisteria hardly looked capable of bearing a man's weight and he was afraid Bertie would come crashing to earth in a tangle of leaves and broken stems.

Obviously the plant was stronger than it looked as Bertie reached the damaged area without mishap. Ginger saw him examine the wall closely then fumble in his pocket for something. Bertie appeared to be scraping at the stonework then moments later he was on his way back down. Ginger breathed a sigh of relief as Bertie stepped onto terra firma again.

"Well?" he asked impatiently as Bertie joined him.

For reply Bertie opened his hand. On the palm lay a flattened bullet. "I just dug this out of the wall," he informed Ginger. "I think we can safely say that this was the shot we heard fired just before dinner," he concluded. "I wonder what's the earliest time of death the police doctor would suggest without the evidence we so conveniently gave them."

Ginger stared at the bullet. "And I wonder if it would match the one that killed Cliffe," he mused. "Or whether we have two firearms involved."

"I think a word with Dr Grange is in order," suggested Bertie. "And a look at the forensics report if that can be arranged."

Ginger nodded and together they went back to the house in search of some answers.


	10. Revelations

**Chapter 10**

**Revelations**

They glanced in and saw Constable Pearson interviewing Joseph Levi-Strauss in the library as they walked past the French windows. Bertie remarked that the policeman would be no match for the businessman. Ginger concurred, adding that while Pearson would be hard pushed to get anything worthwhile out of the financier, he bet that Levy-Strauss would have found out a lot during the course of the interview.

Bertie obtained the police doctor's telephone number from the butler and put through a call while Ginger sat on one of the hall chairs and listened. Dr Grange proved only too willing to help. He not only provided information about the provisional time of death but also agreed to arrange for a copy of the forensic report to be passed on. Bertie thanked him and put the receiver down.

"Well?" questioned Ginger, who had only been able to hear Bertie's end of the conversation.

"Dr Grange was most co-operative," Bertie told him. "Not only can we expect the forensic report by return of post, but he was able to tell me now that death could have taken place any time between 7 o'clock and 8.30."

"That's nearly a whole hour earlier than we had originally thought," observed Ginger.

Bertie nodded. "We concentrated on asking Celia who was in the drawing room from 7.30 onwards. It seems we ought to have been setting our sights a lot earlier." He frowned. "Of course, most people would have been in their rooms changing. When you think about it, it's an ideal time to go around the corridors unseen."

"Perhaps we ought to have a word with the butler," suggested Ginger. "To see if any of the servants noticed anything."

Bertie looked at him askance. "I do hope you're not going to say the butler did it, old boy," he remarked in mock exasperation. "You really do read too many whodunits, you know."

Ginger grinned. "Stranger things have happened," he declared.

Bertie shook his head sadly but agreed that they should consult Beech. Accordingly they made their way to the butler's pantry to request his help. They found the retainer in the silver safe, supervising the storage of the plate after the previous evening's dinner party.

Bertie explained the situation. Beech was deferential but could not add anything to their knowledge. All the guests had been in their rooms, dressing for dinner. The servants, having laid out the clothes and drawn the baths, were below stairs, preparing to serve dinner. He himself had been in the drawing room, making up the fire.

"Ah, yes," murmured Bertie. "The drawing room fire. Why wasn't the parlour maid doing that?" he wanted to know.

"Sarah was ill," the butler explained as he closed the heavy door of the safe and locked it, putting the key in his pocket. "She fainted earlier in the day. I told her to go to bed and rest. It wouldn't do for her to pass out in front of the family."

"Very commendable," commented Bertie. "And no one noticed anything unusual when the guests were dressing for dinner?" he asked.

"Not at all, my lord," replied the servant. "Everything was completely normal."

Bertie pursed his lips but made no comment.

"How is the maid – Sarah, I think you said – now?" enquired Ginger. "Has she got over her faint?"

"Yes, thank you, sir," replied the butler.

"Did she see a doctor?" asked Ginger. "What was the matter?"

The butler regarded him curiously and looked uncomfortable. "There was no need for a doctor. She was suffering from …" he hesitated before choosing his words carefully, " …'women's problems', I believe, sir," he replied enigmatically.

Ginger frowned and was about to ask for clarification when Bertie butted in. "Thank you, Beech," he dismissed the employee, "that's all for now. We may want to ask you some more questions later." He took Ginger's elbow and steered him out of the pantry.

"Women's problems?" queried Ginger as they made their way down the corridor. "What sort of women's problems?"

Bertie stared at him. "Didn't Jeanette teach you anything?" he asked incredulously.

Ginger coloured. "Jeanette didn't have any problems," he confessed, "or at least, none that she told me about."

Bertie sighed. "Women seem to have all sorts of problems, old boy," he commented darkly, unusually serious, "from child bearing to hysteria. They are a complete enigma and best to be avoided if you want my considered opinion."

Ginger looked at him with compassion. He understood that Bertie occasionally felt uncomfortable with women, but reminded him, "a lot of the suspects seem to be women, including your cousin. Could you see Celia killing Cliffe to keep this house?"

Bertie shook his head decisively. "She wouldn't have shot him," he averred. "She's been too well trained in gun safety to use it on a person. If she was going to kill him I think she'd have chosen some other method; poison or a knife, perhaps."

Ginger's eyes opened wide. When he had posed the question it had been mere idle speculation. He had not expected Bertie's matter-of-fact response.

"Now, my aunt," Bertie continued to Ginger's amazement, "is a completely different kettle of fish, if you get my meaning; she would have had no compunction at all about shooting him. She shot plenty of Germans when she was working with the _Maquis_ in France during the War." Seeing Ginger's horrified expression, Bertie told him, reassuringly, "I don't believe either of them did it, old boy. There's no need to look so shocked."

Ginger swallowed. The revelations about Bertie's family had rocked him on his heels. Lady Conway looked so fragile he could not imagine her in a French underground _réseau_ and still less could he picture her shooting Nazi troops.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me about your family?" asked Ginger. "You haven't got a mass murderer tucked away somewhere in your family tree, have you? Or a skeleton or two hidden in a closet?"

Bertie chuckled. "Well, some of the ancestors were a bit blood thirsty, you know, old boy. Most of the land we received with the titles was a reward for valour on the battlefield – and backing the right side, of course," he added with a smile. "That was the way it worked in those days."

"What about Colonel Hitchcott?" asked Ginger. "Did he know your aunt during the war?"

"I believe he may have done," admitted Bertie. "He says he was in Intelligence. They could well have met, either before a mission or during debriefing. They've certainly known each other a long time." He pushed open the green baize door and ushered Ginger through.

They emerged into the hall to find it in uproar. Beech was remonstrating with Constable Pearson, while Lady Conway sat on a chair, her face frozen. Her daughter stood defiantly beside her. A policewoman, a new arrival from the county town, was at Celia's elbow.

"I say," murmured Bertie, "what's going on here?"

"This idiot," replied Lady Conway scathingly, indicating Constable Pearson, "is proposing to arrest Celia."

There was a moment's stunned silence. Then, as is often the way, several people spoke at once.

"What!" expostulated Bertie.

"Whatever for?" asked Ginger.

"I _am_ arresting her, your ladyship," confirmed the Constable and proceeded to put his hand on Celia's shoulder before intoning the formula of arrest.

Celia shrugged off the policeman's hand irritably. "This is ridiculous," she protested. "I didn't kill that hideous little man!"

"I'm sure you didn't, old girl," Bertie reassured her. To Pearson he said, "what evidence have you found to base your arrest on?"

"Motive and opportunity," pronounced the policeman importantly.

Ginger snorted. "From what we've found out so far," he opined, "virtually everybody in the household had both motive and opportunity. Any evidence you've got has to be circumstantial. Have you found the weapon?"

From the look on Pearson's face, Ginger was sure he had not, but the policeman blustered, "there is enough evidence to issue a warrant for her arrest."

"Bertram," appealed Lady Conway, "can't you do something? I thought you were a policeman. Aren't you at Scotland Yard?"

Bertie grimaced. "Well, yes, Aunt Adelaide," he admitted, "but at the moment, there isn't anything I can do except advise you to get the best legal advice you can. Ginger and I will do our best to find the real killer. Once we do that, they'll have to let Celia go."

When Celia had been escorted to the waiting police car by Pearson and the woman constable, and Lady Conway had retired to the drawing room, Bertie and Ginger exchanged glances.

"I must admit," said Ginger, "I didn't expect Pearson to do that. I wonder what he's found that would give a magistrate grounds to issue a warrant. I don't think it was the pistol with Celia's prints on it."

Bertie regarded him steadily. "You know, if we could find the pistol," he mused, "whether it has prints on it or not, that would be a step forward."

Ginger nodded, distractedly. A movement caught his eye and he glanced up as a maid swiftly withdrew behind the door to the servants quarters. He frowned, puzzled.

Bertie eyed him quizzically. "What's up, old boy?" he wanted to know.

"I just caught a glimpse of a maid coming through the door into the hall. As soon as she saw us, she turned round and went back into the corridor straight away," replied Ginger. "I thought she looked familiar somehow. I must have seen her somewhere before, but I can't place where."

"You've probably seen her at her duties, old boy. Was she the one who cleared up the necklace?" asked Bertie.

"No, I don't think so," responded Ginger. "This one is blonde, although I don't think it's natural," he added to Bertie's amusement, "and quite slim. The one who picked up the pearls was plump and mousy. The trouble is, you don't really notice the servants. I suppose it's their job to be unobtrusive."

"It will probably come to you when you're not thinking about it," suggested Bertie. "These things often do." He glanced at his watch. "Time for a spot of lunch, I think."


	11. Casting a heel line

**Chapter 11**

**Casting A Heel Line**

That afternoon, Bertie and Ginger sat in the morning room and interviewed the suspects again about their movements at the earlier time. As most of them were in their rooms dressing, it was a matter of husbands corroborating wives and vice versa. Even the Colonel had spent some time in conversation with his manservant when he rang for his assistance, which the valet confirmed.

Lady Conway's maid had been helping her mistress to dress and mentioned that Lady Celia had come in to speak to her mother just before going down to the drawing room.

Peter and Julian vouched for each other. Peter coloured when Ginger broached the subject of his visit to the victim's room after the murder. "I don't suppose you'll believe I went to get a book back, will you?" he asked. "The constable didn't."

Ginger and Bertie nodded. "What was the real reason?" asked Bertie. "Cliffe had an incriminating letter you needed to get back?"

Peter wrung his hands. "I knew it!" he exclaimed. "I'm done for! My aunt will crucify me! I'll have no job, no money, nothing!" He looked on the point of tears.

"We don't know anything specific," Bertie hastened to reassure him, "but we guessed it was something like that."

"It's all my fault," admitted Julian ruefully. " I was indiscreet. I wrote something to Peter and carelessly left it lying about instead of posting it straight away. Cliffe got hold of it somehow." He blushed. "It wouldn't look good if it were published. His aunt is rather straight-laced," he explained. "She wouldn't understand at all. She would take great delight in disinheriting him and the firm he works for would drop him like a hot brick at any breath of scandal." He looked at Bertie and Ginger pleadingly. "You can't always choose how you feel," he murmured. "Things are changing, but there is a long way to go yet."

"I know," replied Bertie compassionately. Ginger remained silent.

"I swear I didn't kill him," avowed Peter passionately, "but I can't say I wasn't relieved when I heard someone had done it for us. My first thought was to get that letter back, but the constable wouldn't let me in."

Bertie regarded them steadily. "No, I don't think you did murder him," he concluded. "If you had killed him," he remarked, "it would be only natural to have ransacked the room and taken the letter as soon as he was dead, not go up there hours later to try to find it. As there was ample time for someone to fire a shot on the terrace as a red herring, the murderer clearly wasn't disturbed doing the evil deed." He smiled at Peter reassuringly. "Don't worry, old chap. I'll do everything in my power to see that the letter is returned to you safely without a scandal," he promised.

Peter wrung Bertie's hand gratefully. "Thank you for understanding," he breathed. "So few people do."

When they were alone again, Bertie and Ginger sat back to compare notes and review what they had come up with so far. As Bertie gloomily remarked, there seemed to be as many suspects as there were people in the house and just about everyone had both motive and opportunity. Mostly any corroborative evidence had been supplied by people who were closely linked to each other. Hardly independent witnesses, as Ginger had to admit.

"Is there anyone we've overlooked, old boy?" Bertie asked, staring at the pieces of paper in front of them. On one of them, Ginger had drawn lines linking the names of those involved to make a sort of chart, but Bertie felt it had not advanced their understanding very much or brought a solution any nearer.

"Well, I suppose we haven't talked to the parlour maids," remarked Ginger. "We've had a word with just about everybody else."

Bertie agreed and sent for Beech to request the girls to be interviewed. They came singly. The plump, mousy girl who had gathered up the pearl necklace was the first to arrive. Alice, as she was called, was amiable, but not over-endowed with intelligence, it seemed. Her answers mainly consisted of, "dunno" and "sort of". When she had disappeared back to the servants' quarters, Bertie sighed.

"Let's hope your mystery maid is more enlightening," he teased Ginger. "Perhaps you'll remember where you've seen her before."

A brief tap preceded the opening of the door and Sarah entered. Bertie noticed that Ginger had been correct in his observation that her hair was not naturally blonde; the darker roots were beginning to show where the hair was parted and she had very dark eyebrows and eyelashes as well as dark brown eyes. As he looked at her, the feeling grew on him that he, too, had seen her somewhere before, but like Ginger, he could not place where.

"Are you feeling better now, Sarah?" asked Ginger conversationally to break the ice. "I understand you fainted."

She looked at him suspiciously and nodded. "I came over funny," she added. "'Tweren't nothing to it."

"But Beech relieved you of your duties," prompted Bertie. When she looked at him blankly, he explained, "you were allowed to go to your room and rest; you didn't have to make the fire up in the drawing room or wait on table."

She nodded but said nothing.

"And did you go to your room?" asked Ginger.

"Course I did," she told him. "Don't often get a rest here."

Bertie hesitated a moment before putting his next question. "Is there anyone who can confirm that?"

"Didn't have a man in my room, if that's what you mean," she scoffed defiantly.

Bertie looked discomfited. More to distract attention than for any other reason, Ginger asked, "did you know the murdered man?"

A look of hatred flashed across her face, but so swiftly was it hidden that Ginger almost wondered if he had imagined it. "No," she denied. "I never saw him before."

"But you disliked him?" probed Ginger.

"I never," she countered. "How could I dislike him when I didn't know him?"

"He might have upset you during his stay," suggested Bertie. "He wasn't the most tactful of guests."

She shook her head. "I never had anything to do with him."

"Didn't you go up to his room after his death to try to collect the sheets?" asked Ginger, recalling his conversation with Constable Clark.

She looked at him like a startled rabbit, the blood draining from her face. Suddenly Ginger realised it was not that he had seen her before, but that she reminded him of Naomi Levy-Strauss. He pictured her with dark hair and was surprised at the resemblance; the two of them could have been sisters.

"That was Mr Beech's idea," she protested, "not mine. He wanted everything cleared up. When I came back and said I couldn't get in, he went up himself to see."

Ginger nodded. "Well, I think that's all. Thank you, Miss …" He hesitated. "What's your surname, Sarah?" he asked curiously.

"Smith," she disclosed. "And it's Mrs."

"Have you been married long?" he queried, noticing the wedding band on her ring finger for the first time.

"I'm a widow," she told him shortly. "There's no one to provide for _me_." The bitterness in her tone was harsh.

Ginger wondered briefly about the emphasis. Who was there who had someone to provide for them? "No family?" he enquired. "What was your maiden name?"

She looked at him for a moment as if she were contemplating telling him it was none of his business, but then she relented. "My maiden name was Goldman," she informed him matter-of-factly. "When I married a Gentile, my family was not very happy. Now he's dead and I'm left to carry on alone." She coloured and stood up, unconsciously smoothing her apron. "I didn't mean to go on, sir, m'lord," she apologised to the pair of them. "I'm just feeling a bit run down."

When Sarah had departed, Ginger told Bertie about the resemblance he had noticed. "Of course, old boy!" exclaimed Bertie. "I'd spotted it, too, but like you, I couldn't place it! Well, well. Goldman, eh? I wonder if Mrs Levy-Strauss was also a Goldman."

"Let's find out, shall we?" suggested Ginger, half rising, "we can ring up Algy and ask him to check at Somerset House."

Bertie remained where he was. "If she is Sarah's sister," he mused, "that must have been dashed awkward for them. No wonder Mrs L is such a bundle of nerves. She must live in dread of someone making the connection." He looked at Ginger sharply. "You know, old boy," he ventured quizzically, "I wonder if that had any bearing on Mrs Levy-Strauss' twitchiness when you mentioned the staircase she used. She might have met her sister on the stairs and been too socially embarrassed that someone might find out a close relation was a servant here."

"I suppose if she did, she would have told her husband," reflected Ginger, sitting down again, "which could account for his reaction. He would want to protect his wife – and by extension, himself. Yes," he concluded, "if Sarah Smith and Naomi Levy-Strauss are related, it would explain a lot of things."

"It complicates a lot of things, too, though, old boy," added Bertie. "And poses a lot more questions; are they still estranged, for a start? Blood is thicker than water and Sarah appears to be down on her luck at the moment, while Naomi has married well and risen in society."

"Did you notice the look on her face when I asked if she knew Cliffe?" asked Ginger. "She denied that she had ever met him, but I'm sure she detested him for some reason. She was very quick in covering it up, but for a moment what flashed across her face was pure hatred."

Bertie nodded. "Mrs Smith certainly merits a closer inspection, old boy." He stood up and made for the door. "Let's go and make that phone call, shall we? After all, we can't let Algy miss all the fun."


	12. A nifty piece of work

**Chapter 12**

**A Nifty Piece Of Work**

Algy was surprised to hear from them when he was expecting them back the following day. He could not resist making a comment about their getting up to mischief, but he was pleased to be given some research to do on their behalf as the humdrum routine of office work was beginning to pall. He promised he would let them know his findings as soon as possible, on which note, he put the receiver down and left for Somerset House.

Bertie and Ginger went back to the morning room, which they had made their base when Constable Pearson appropriated the library for his investigations. They saw no reason to change even though the rural policeman seemed to have lost interest in the remaining suspects now that he had arrested Celia.

Ginger went over to the window and stared out over the terrace. "It would be a great help if we could find the gun," he remarked. "Is there any sign of the forensic report? Do we know if both shots were fired by the same weapon?"

Bertie shook his head. "The post won't have come yet, old boy. Unless Dr Grange sends someone over with it specially, we can't expect it until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

Ginger turned away from the window. "If you were the murderer, what would you do with the weapon?" he asked Bertie.

"Well, I don't know, old boy," admitted Bertie. "It would depend on whether it's my own gun or not. If it were, I'd get rid of it somewhere; bury it, say, or chuck it in the lake."

"You'd be pretty silly to use your own gun, wouldn't you?" remarked Ginger. "Assuming you held it legally, of course. We could check up and see who had a licence to keep a firearm – other than the shotguns, of course – and ask you to produce it. What if it weren't your own gun?"

"Well, in that case, old boy, I'd put it back where I had it from, making sure I'd wiped my fingerprints off it before I did so."

Ginger nodded. "But you could still get rid of it, even if it weren't your own, couldn't you?" When Bertie acknowledged the truth of that, Ginger continued, "so before we check up on who might have had a handgun in their possession, let's have a look round the grounds. There's still time before the light fades."

"I'm right with you, old boy," replied Bertie, screwing his monocle in his eye. "Lead on Macduff!"

As they emerged into the hall, so recently the scene of Celia's dramatic arrest, they saw Joseph Levy-Strauss posting some letters in the letter box. "That reminds me," said Ginger, "I've left my letters in my room. They completely slipped my mind in all the excitement. You go on ahead, Bertie. I'll just go up and fetch them and I'll meet you by the summerhouse."

"Okay, old boy," acquiesced Bertie. "Don't be long. We haven't got much daylight left."

"I won't," promised Ginger and turning on his heel, he ran lightly up the main staircase.

Bertie acknowledged Levy-Strauss' nod as he passed and went out through the front entrance. He turned left and made his way round the side of the house, strolling along the south terrace, his eyes on the ground, examining the neatly tended flower border. He glanced up briefly as he passed under Ginger's window and then dropped his gaze once more, looking for signs of disturbed earth. His footprints were still there from his ascent of the wisteria, but there was no other indication of anything amiss. He carried on round the end of the house and reached the steps leading to the croquet lawn. Realising he must be under Cliffe's window by now, Bertie retraced his steps and started to scrutinise the borders on this side of the house. To his disappointment, for he thought it was possible the murderer might have discarded the weapon through the window before closing it again, he found nothing incriminating.

Having reached the end of the terrace, Bertie was left with a choice of heading back to the steps to cross the lawn or carrying on until he struck the path to the rose garden, whence, he knew, he could eventually reach the summerhouse which Ginger had chosen as their rendezvous. He chose to go on, more because he found the rose garden pleasant than for any other reason. Like Celia earlier in their stay, he lingered a moment to appreciate the blooms. A scrap of something white, snagged on a thorn, caught his eye. He was just about to bend down and reach out to retrieve it when Mr and Mrs Levy-Strauss came down the path.

Bertie straightened up. "What ho!" he greeted them. "Taking the air?"

Joseph Levy-Strauss smiled, his strong white teeth flashing in the low rays of the late afternoon sun. "Why not, Lord Lissie?" he parried. "We must make the most of our opportunities."

"The roses are lovely," remarked Naomi. "Such a shame that these are the last for this year." She reached out and tried to pluck a bloom, but then cried out sharply in pain, blood welling from a pricked finger.

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Bertie, taking out his handkerchief to staunch the flow. "What bad luck!"

"I'm so careless!" sobbed Naomi, winding the handkerchief round her finger.

"Let us go in, my dear," encouraged her husband. "You should have the wound cleaned and bound up properly. Rose thorns can be very nasty."

"Absolutely," agreed Bertie. "Must watch out for tetanus. Make sure your shots are up to date."

Joseph Levy-Strauss put his arm protectively around his wife's shoulders and led her away. Bertie watched them for a moment then turned to gather the scrap he had noticed before their arrival. The fragment, whatever it was, was no longer there; the thorns were bare and unadorned. Bertie stared for a moment, thinking he was mistaken and had gone back to the wrong bush, but when he checked none of the bushes had anything impaled on a thorn.

"Well, well, well," murmured Bertie to himself. "The sly dogs. I wonder what it was that was so important."


	13. A spot of gardening

**Chapter 13**

**A Spot Of Gardening**

Bertie continued on his way and arrived at the summerhouse to find Ginger waiting for him. The young man had come via the croquet lawn, checking the ha-ha for discarded weapons en route.

"That was a nifty piece of work!" opined Ginger when Bertie brought him up to date with events in the rose garden.

"Absolutely, old boy!" agreed Bertie. "The chap ought to join the Magic Circle!"

"You've no idea what it was?" questioned Ginger. "Whether it was fabric or paper?"

"It looked as though it might have been paper," said Bertie, "but I didn't really get a good look at it before the Levy-Strausses did their disappearing act on it."

Ginger sighed. "Let's hope we get some firm information soon. All these suspects and missing clues are driving me crazy."

"Well, there's only one missing clue so far, isn't there, old boy?" remarked Bertie. "The case of the disappearing fragment, you might say," he added facetiously.

"Well, I'm sure there's something I noticed before I fell down the stairs," Ginger reminded him. He wrinkled his brow. "If only I could remember. It's sort of there in the back of my mind, but I can't grasp it," he said irritably.

"Perhaps I ought to bash you on the boko again to bring it back," suggested Bertie brightly. "Sort of shock treatment, don't you know!"

Ginger treated him to a withering glance. "Just a thought, old boy," remarked Bertie. "Nobody ever likes my bright ideas."

"Well try and have a bright idea that doesn't involve pain," Ginger told him with feeling. "Did you see anything that might indicate where a weapon could be hidden?"

"Not a bally thing, old boy," admitted Bertie. "You?"

"No," confessed Ginger, shaking his head. "When you dug the bullet out of the wall, did you get an idea of where it might have been fired from?"

"From the way the branch had been cut and the direction of entry into the stone, it could have been fired from the terrace or from the shelter of those azaleas and rhododendrons by the ha-ha."

"We didn't find anything on the terrace …" began Ginger.

"That shrubbery is looking awfully attractive," murmured Bertie. "You could hide an army in there."

"That's what Clark said," remarked Ginger as they set off down the path to the rose garden, heading for the terrace once more.

At Bertie's puzzled look, Ginger recounted what the constable left outside Cliffe's door had said about the warren of stairs and corridors.

Bertie nodded. "We used to play hide and seek in them when I was a child," he reminisced. "The corridors were so cold in the winter, we used to stuff a hot water bottle down our jumpers when we had to go from room to room. Thank goodness Celia has had the heating mended."

As they passed through the rose garden, Ginger asked which bush had sported the scrap of paper. When Bertie pointed it out, Ginger went over for a closer look.

"There's nothing there, old boy," Bertie assured him. "I had a good look round."

Ginger bent down and looked at the earth beneath the bush. It had a good mulch around the roots which had recently been applied. He looked at the other bushes and saw that they, too, had a mulch, but theirs was much more settled. Curious, he scraped at the mound then knelt down as his fingers touched something firm and rectangular.

Bertie saw him stiffen. When Ginger withdrew his hand, he was holding a small oblong package, wrapped in stiff paper which had once been white. One corner of the wrapping had been torn off.

"I say!" exclaimed Bertie. "What have you got there?"

"Whatever the mystery scrap of paper came off, by the look of things," opined Ginger. He enfolded the parcel in his handkerchief and undid the wrapping, being careful not to cause any more damage to any possible fingerprints which might have survived the burial. Encased in an oiled cloth was a small block of white powder, tightly compressed. He looked at Bertie. "Is this what I think it is?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know, old boy," was Bertie's reply. "Aren't you supposed to put a bit on your finger and taste it? We'd look pretty silly if someone had buried a block of flour!" Suiting the action to the words, he dabbed his finger in the powder and tested it on the tip of his tongue. Grimacing, he confirmed their suspicions.

"Well, this is turning into a regular little maze," he remarked. "Who do you suppose planted this particular rose?"

"Circumstantial evidence points to the Levy-Strausses," replied Ginger. "I wonder if this was a sample of what Mrs Levy-Strauss needed to go to her room for so she could get through dinner." He broke off as a thought struck him. "Suppose Cliffe was dealing in the stuff and she needed a fix," he continued, speculating. "She went up to his room to get a new supply, he played hard to get – tried to up the price or made her beg for the goods - so she shot him and took the drug. Then she came down to the drawing room with her husband, he went ahead and she slipped out onto the terrace and fired the shot under my window or he had already gone on ahead and she fired the decoy shot before joining him. I think her husband would know everything she did and support her – he seems very protective. How does that hang together?"

"Sounds plausible to me, old boy," affirmed Bertie. "Only now, how do we prove it?"

"We need to find that pistol," stated Ginger. "I think that's the key to it all. If that's the way of it and she did shoot him, why did she take a gun with her? And where did she keep it? Evening dresses aren't exactly ideal for hiding weapons. What about her evening bag that she said she went to get? Where is that?"

Bertie sighed. "You know, old boy," he reflected resignedly, "the more we find out, the more questions we have to answer!"

"What concerns me is, what is she going to do when she finds her stash has disappeared? Has she got sufficient for her immediate needs and this is insurance for the future against the loss of her supplier? We shall have to keep an eye on Mrs Levy-Strauss." Ginger put the package in his pocket and looked at the darkening sky. The light had all but gone. "It's too late to look in the shrubbery now," he commented. "We'll have to leave that until tomorrow. Perhaps by then we'll have the forensic report and know more about the weapon or weapons we're looking for and Algy might have been able to find out all about Miss Goldman."

They fell into step together and made their way back to the house in the deepening gloom. The light from the unshuttered windows was spilling out onto the terrace and making the shadows created by the piers darker still by contrast. Ginger stopped in one of the areas between the shafts of light and glanced up. He drew an imaginary bead on the broken branch of the wisteria then looked into the drawing room. Sarah was making up the fire. She finished her task and left without noticing him.

Bertie watched the pantomime and observed, "could be done, old boy."

"Yes, but wouldn't the sound be noticed? We heard it quite clearly."

"You had your window open and we weren't talking at the time," Bertie pointed out. "The drawing room windows were closed. With everybody gossiping before dinner, it might not be heard."

Ginger nodded and walked on. Bertie matched strides. Together they pushed open the double doors to the entrance hall, only to stop dead in their tracks. A visitor was just handing his hat and coat to Beech.

"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed Bertie. "What are you doing here?"

"That's no way to greet someone who's driven all the way down from London with information you asked for," declared Algy, turning to greet them. "Or do you want to keep all the fun for yourself?


	14. Algy provides some answers

**Chapter 14**

**Algy Provides Some Answers**

"But who's minding the shop, old boy?" Bertie asked the newcomer as Ginger grinned widely. Trust Algy not to want to be left out, he thought.

"There's no flap on at the moment and I've told the Air Commodore where I can be reached in case of emergency," replied Algy. "It won't take me long to get back. I can't let you out of my sight for a minute," he chided them, mock seriously. "Trust you lot to get up to mischief when my back's turned."

"You're starting to sound like Biggles," said Ginger smiling.

When their good-natured greetings had been exchanged, the trio retired to the morning room to look at what Algy had brought with him.

They spread the copies of birth and marriage certificates on the table and checked the details. There were also two death certificates among the collection.

"Why have you brought these?" queried Ginger, indicating the extra pieces of paper.

"I thought you might like to have a look," replied Algy. "Not only are Sarah and Naomi sisters, but their mother committed suicide and their father died of alcoholism." He took a newspaper clipping out of his wallet, unfolded it and laid it on the table.

"I thought you might also like to see why Sarah and Naomi's mother committed suicide," he declared, with the air of a conjurer drawing a rabbit from a hat.

"You have been busy!" remarked Ginger approvingly as they stared at the cutting.

'WOMAN THROWS HERSELF IN FRONT OF TRAIN' screamed the banner headline.

"What a dreadful thing to do!" exclaimed Ginger in horror.

"Yes," agreed Algy, "but read on."

In silence they read the accompanying story. Mrs Goldman had left her husband and two children for another man. When he in turn had deserted her, she had taken the drastic step of ending her own life. The coroner's remarks at the ensuing inquest had been to the effect that this should be a salutary warning to all bored housewives.

"It doesn't name the man," observed Ginger. "But if it was Cliffe, it would give them both a motive."

"Absolutely, old boy," assented Bertie. "What a rotter the blighter must have been!"

"Levy-Strauss told me in the corridor he thought it was suicide – I wonder if he was thinking about this," mused Ginger. "Poetic justice, so to speak."

"But it wasn't suicide, was it, old boy?" interpolated Bertie. "I mean, no one's found the gun. It wasn't in the room. If he'd shot himself, he could hardly have made the weapon disappear, if you get my meaning."

"It all boils down to what I said before," stated Ginger emphatically. "The gun is the key to everything!"

"I think you're probably right, old boy," concurred Bertie. "But where is it, that's the question?"

At that moment a tap on the door preceded Beech's entrance. "Her Ladyship would like to know if Mr Lacey intends to stay," he enquired discreetly. "The Green Room is available if you would like to stay the night, sir," he informed Algy courteously.

Algy hesitated, torn between duty and curiosity. "Thank her ladyship for me, Beech," he replied eventually, a tinge of regret in his voice, "but I shall have to be getting back to London. I will call in and see her before I leave."

"Very good, sir," murmured the butler and withdrew.

When the door had closed and they were alone again, Algy looked at his companions. "Before I have to go, I think we should have it out with the Levy-Strauss couple and Sarah. Let's confront them with this and see what they have to say."

"Isn't the usual procedure to assemble everybody in the drawing room and denounce the murderer with a flourish?" asked Ginger with a twinkle in his eye.

"You've been reading too many whodunits, my lad!" Algy admonished him sternly.

"That's what I told him!" exclaimed Bertie as Ginger chuckled.

"We'll dispense with the drawing room drama and see them in here," said Algy, looking at Ginger askance. "Ring for Beech and ask him to send them here."

Ginger, unabashed, did as he was bade. They spent the short time before the suspects arrived organising the presentation of what they had gathered so far. It was agreed that, as it was Bertie's cousin's house and he had been involved from the beginning, he should take charge of proceedings.

Naomi and Joseph Levy-Strauss were the first to arrive. When the introductions were over, Bertie invited them to be seated.

"I hope this will not take long, Lord Lissie," rumbled the financier. "They will soon be ringing the gong for dinner."

"That rather depends on you, old boy," Bertie told him. "We just have to wait for one more participant, so to speak. Then we can begin."

"You won't mind if I smoke?" The banker drew a Corona from a leather case and waved it airily. On receiving assent, he lit up and blew a cloud of scented smoke into the air. His wife wafted it away with her handkerchief.

Ginger, sitting to Naomi's right, was directly in the path of the cloud of cigar smoke mingled with Lily of the Valley perfume and suddenly in a flash he remembered what he had been struggling to bring to mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again without saying anything as a tap on the door preceded the arrival of Sarah.

When she saw the maid enter, Naomi Levy-Strauss sprang to her feet with a cry of anguish. Sarah went white and would have turned and run but for Algy closing the door firmly behind her. Seeing she was trapped she walked forward resignedly.

"Now we're all here," remarked Bertie brightly. "Of course, you all know each other," he remarked conversationally, "since you're related."

Naomi looked as though she was about to faint. Her husband tried to bluster, but Bertie held up the birth certificates.

Seeing that there was no point in denying their relationship, the banker tried to explain his reaction.

"I understand your embarrassment," Bertie told him. "But there is rather more to it than that, isn't there, old chap? I mean, it is correct that Cliffe was the blighter who ruined your wife and her sister's family, isn't it?"

Stunned, Levy-Strauss said nothing. Ginger broke the ensuing silence. "And it is true that your wife pushed me down the servants stairs outside Cliffe's room, isn't it?"

All eyes switched to him. "Just before I lost consciousness I was aware of a strong smell. I lost my memory for a while, but just now it came back; what I smelled was Lily of the Valley perfume and a hint of cigar smoke."

Naomi started to sob. "I didn't kill him," she wailed.

"But you did push me downstairs," persisted Ginger.

She nodded tearfully.

"Why?" he wanted to know.

"I panicked," she confessed between sobs. "I'd gone up there to see if I could get into the room, but that constable was there. I hid inside the door of the staircase to see if he would go off duty. The bulb had blown when I switched it on, so I knew I wouldn't be seen, but when you came in, I thought you would be sure to catch me and think I had killed that horrid man."

"You were in his room, though – before dinner," suggested Ginger. He brought the package they had found in the rose garden out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. "To get this?"

Her hands flew to her mouth which opened in a silent scream. Her husband put his arms around her protectively. "My wife was with me," he protested.

"I'm afraid we only have your word for that, old chap," broke in Bertie. He looked at Naomi compassionately. "Tell the truth, Mrs Levy-Strauss. Were you in Cliffe's room? The police will have taken fingerprints, don't forget."

"But I was wearing my gloves …" She stopped, horror-stricken at what she had admitted.

Bertie regarded her sadly. "You might as well tell us everything now, you know," he suggested gently.

She took a deep breath then nodded in resignation. "I didn't kill him," she whispered. "He was already dead. I just took what I had come for and left."

"It's going to be very hard to prove that, you know," Bertie pointed out.

For the first time Sarah spoke. "No, it isn't. She saw the murderer leave."


	15. Full circle

**Chapter 15**

**Full Circle**

At this startling announcement, everyone turned to look at Sarah.

"No!" wailed, Naomi, "don't say anything!"

Sarah shook her head gently. "Only you didn't, really. You only thought you did," she explained. "When you saw me leave his room and go down the servants stairs, I hadn't just killed him." She turned to face Bertie. "I admit I went there intending to murder him, my lord. I had had hate in my heart for so long after what he did to our dad. He filled mum's head with such silly notions she left us and ran away with him. He didn't have no time for her, really. When he dumped her, she realised what a fool she'd been and she couldn't bear it. She killed herself."

"We know," murmured Ginger compassionately. "It was a dreadful thing to do."

Sarah's eyes filled with tears. "It broke dad's heart. He turned to drink. It killed him in the end." She brushed away the tears with a savage motion as if trying to wipe away the memories. "When I saw that man among the guests, smiling and full of himself, the shock was so much I fainted. I'd already had a bit of a turn when I spotted Naomi with her husband. What are the chances of that happening, eh? Two people from the past turning up in the same place on the same day." She turned to Naomi and said ruefully, "you didn't recognise me among the servants, but I knew you straight away, even though it's been such a long time since we quarrelled."

When Naomi kept silent, her eyes lowered shame-faced, Sarah plunged on. "I decided when I got the chance, I'd poison him. I took some rat poison from the potting shed and put it in a flask of warm milk. I took it up to his room to leave by the bed, thinking he'd drink it before he went to sleep and never wake up." She swallowed hard. "When I got there I found him dead, lying on the floor with a bullet hole in his head. It fair turned my stomach. The gun was lying on the floor by his hand. I thought he'd shot himself."

Sarah took a deep breath. "I couldn't get out of there fast enough and get rid of that poisoned drink! I just turned and fled. When I came out of his room, I saw you coming down the corridor," she said to her sister. "I never thought you'd be going to see him."

"I recognised you at once when I saw you come out of the door," sobbed Naomi. "When I went in and found him dead, I jumped to the conclusion you'd done it. The first thing I thought of was to try to give you an alibi. I thought if I took the pistol and fired it so someone could be a witness to a later time, you'd have a chance."

"But you didn't forget the real reason you went to Cliffe's room, did you?" prompted Ginger.

She shook her head. "I picked the pistol up and was just going to leave when I spotted the package on the dressing table. There was a note next to it, so I wrapped the parcel up in the paper to stop the oil making a stain and put it in my bag with the gun. Then I went down the back stairs and out into the area. I thought I might be searched, so I ran to the rose garden and pushed the package into the soil at the base of the white rose. It was the nearest and the only one I could see clearly. Then I ran back to the terrace. When I went round to get to the entrance, I could see your window was open and your light was on," she told Ginger. "I thought you being a policeman, your testimony would be reliable and people would accept a later time of death, so I fired a shot into the wall."

"You were very nearly right," acknowledged Ginger. "If Cliffe's window had been open, you might have got away with it."

"What did you do with the gun?" Bertie asked curiously.

"I went round the front of the house to get to the drawing room and dropped it through the mouth of one of the bronze lions – you know, the ones that stand each side of the steps at the entrance," she said. "They're hollow. I'd got my evening gloves on, so I knew I wouldn't have left any fingerprints, even if the gun was found."

"Well, blow me down!" exclaimed Bertie. "We could have searched for years without finding it; I would never have thought of looking there!"

"It's going to be tricky getting it out, but at least we know where it is, now," commented Ginger with relief. "We'll have to get onto that first thing tomorrow and get forensics to match up the bullets with the gun."

He turned to Sarah again. "When you saw the body, you said the gun was lying on the floor by his hand. Was it actually in his hand or just nearby?"

Sarah wrinkled her forehead in an effort to think. "I didn't pay much attention. I didn't really want to look – I just wanted to get away from there as fast as I could. His fingers were touching it, I think," she said eventually.

Ginger looked at Naomi for confirmation.

"I don't – I mean, I think …" she broke off. "It was so horrible." With an effort she pulled herself together. "Yes," she admitted eventually. "His finger was on the trigger. The gun was lying on the palm of his hand. I had to jiggle it a bit to get it free." Her face showed her distaste at the memory.

The three airmen exchanged glances. Bertie cleared his throat. "Ahem, well, I think that seems to be it then. I'm sure I needn't tell you," he added with a wry look at Levy-Strauss, "that you must not leave the premises. Until we are completely satisfied with the truth of your statements, you are still under suspicion."

Naomi Levy-Strauss went across to her sister and hugged her. "I'm satisfied," she said firmly. "If nothing else, that man's death has brought me my sister back. Blood is thicker than water, Sarah – can you forgive me?"

Sarah returned the hug. "Pride is a dreadful thing, Naomi," she admitted. "I should have contacted you before, but I was too stubborn; I wouldn't do it."

Joseph Levy-Strauss put his hands on their shoulders. "We have much to talk about," he remarked quietly. "Now that we are all together again." He ushered them towards the door. Before they went out, he turned and looked at the three airmen.

"I hope this matter can be resolved soon, gentlemen," he murmured. "And we can all go home in peace."

"Amen to that!" breathed Bertie as they went out.

Ginger went to pick up the package, which was still wrapped in his handkerchief. He unfolded the corners and looked at the little bundle, thinking what a mess some people made of their lives. Then he bent closer and exclaimed, "it was under our noses all the time!"

"What was, old boy?" queried Bertie as Algy looked at him enquiringly.

"The solution to the case." Ginger carefully opened up the paper surrounding the oil skin and removed it from the package. The sheet was crumpled and had greasy marks on it as well as stains from its contact with the soil, but when he held it up, it was possible to see that it had writing on it and Cliffe's signature at the bottom.

In silence they read the short missive. Alfred Cliffe had left a suicide note.


	16. Post Script

Post Script

There had not been much left to be done after the discovery of the note, bar the tidying up of a few loose ends. Bertie was able to make good his promise to Peter by returning the incriminating letter which was discovered hidden among Cliffe's effects before it could be made public. The gun was retrieved with considerable difficulty, but without damaging the valuable statue at the entrance. When the pistol was checked with the bullets recovered from Cliffe's body and the wall below Ginger's bedroom they were found to be a perfect match. The only fingerprints on the weapon were those of Cliffe himself and a check of the serial number showed that it had been registered to the victim. The forensic report on the body was consistent with a suicide, in that he had been shot from close range with no signs of a struggle or coercion.

In view of this evidence the case against Celia, which had been tenuous at best, collapsed and she was released immediately, much to Constable Pearson's chagrin and everyone else's relief.

Algy, Bertie and Ginger went back to London, where they were subsequently able to entertain Biggles on his return with their circuitous uncovering of the truth. There the matter rested until some six months after the coroner's inquest had returned a verdict of "suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed".

"There's a letter for you, Bertie," announced Ginger one morning, dropping the bulky white envelope on the table as they were sitting down to breakfast. "It's from a firm of solicitors – are you expecting an inheritance?" he joked.

Bertie picked it up and read the name in the top left corner. "Not me, old boy!" he denied. "Not a firm anybody in my family deals with, anyway."

"Aren't you going to open it?" queried Ginger agog with curiosity. "It might be 'something to your advantage'," he grinned.

Bertie slit open the envelope and extracted the contents. There was a sheet of headed notepaper and another sealed envelope with his name in spidery handwriting.

Ginger watched him curiously as Bertie read the letter, frowning. He put it down and picked up the envelope, weighing it in his hand.

Ginger could stand it no longer. "What is it?" he demanded. "Have you inherited a fortune? Or is it someone going to sue you?"

"Neither, old boy," replied Bertie in a curious voice. "Colonel Hitchcott has died. This is from his solicitors – he left instructions that this envelope was to be forwarded to me once he was dead."

"Well, go on then," urged Ginger. "Don't keep us in suspense. Open it!"

Slowly, Bertie slit the top of the envelope and drew out a sheet of good quality stationery, covered in lines of blue ink that crawled across the page in tightly serried ranks. He read it in silence. When he reached the end he sat looking at it so long without saying anything that Ginger began to fidget.

"Well," he demanded at length, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "What does it say?"

Bertie looked up. "Read it, old boy. It's a bit of a shaker. Read it aloud." He held out the letter.

Ginger reached across and took it from him. He glanced at Algy and Biggles, who nodded encouragingly, then started to read. The calligraphy was shaky and not easy to decipher, but as he continued, engrossed in the content, he understood Bertie's surprise.

_The Fordham_

_Compton Whiles_

_Oxfordshire_

_My dear Lissie_

_If you are reading this, I shall no longer be within reach of mortal justice. I shall have to answer for my actions to that Judge who sees all and knows all. I hope I shall not be found wanting._

_I could not let matters pass without setting the record straight. As you probably suspected, your Aunt Adelaide and I were old friends. Indeed, we were more than that; if things had worked out differently, we might even have married, but it was not to be. The War brought us together, but it also changed our destinies for ever._

_I had been suffering for some time from a terminal illness; I knew I did not have long left to live and any retribution for my actions could not be long delayed. How could I bear to stand by and let all that Adelaide had sacrificed during the War and all that she and Lady Celia had tried so hard to build up be brought down by a scoundrel so dreadful as Alfred Cliffe?_

_I planned it all in advance. At least all those years I had spent in Intelligence had not been in vain. I had already discovered that he had a pistol and took it from his drawer while he was absent. After tea, I went to his room and persuaded him to write the suicide note. I spun him some yarn about making money out of it. The man was so greedy and gullible he swallowed it hook, line and sinker. What he did not realise was that I had used a piece of paper that he had already signed earlier in the day, thinking he was adding to the visitors' book. I covered the signature with a piece of blotting paper. Then I took him by surprise and shot him at close range before he could do anything about it. When I was sure he was dead, I put the gun in his hand._

_I could not have imagined that Mrs Levy-Strauss, in trying to protect her sister, would nearly ruin my carefully laid plans. They came so close to disaster. When Lady Celia was arrested for the murder I nearly went out of my mind with worry. To my great shame, I admit that I even contemplated murdering an innocent person so that her innocence would be proven beyond a doubt. Thank heavens I did not._

_In the end, it all turned out for the best; Adelaide and Lady Celia are secure in their home, Mrs Levy-Strauss has been treated for her problem and is on the road to recovery with the support of her newly reunited family, Peter Fosdyke inherited the fortune from his aunt and has gone to live with Julian in France, where I believe they are more relaxed about these things, the Worsleys are relieved that the South American scandal was not brought up again and a thoroughly evil man has received his just deserts._

_I do not excuse what I did, Lord Lissie, but I do beg for understanding. Your cousin Celia, although she is unaware of it, is my daughter. A man cannot watch his only child suffer without trying to do something about it. I was in the unique position of being able to remove the cause of her distress and I took it._

_I remain,_

_Your obedient servant_

_James Hitchcott Colonel (Rtd)_

Ginger stopped reading, astonished. "Crikey!" he ejaculated as his audience remained silent.

Bertie nodded. "Absolutely, old boy. Absolutely!"


End file.
